


Play Crack the Sky

by WeAreTheCyclones



Series: Play Crack the Sky [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Depression, Drug Abuse, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Derek Hale/Paige, Minor Ethan/Danny Mahealani, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Overdosing, Pack Feels, Past Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski, Past Drug Use, Post-Break Up, Recreational Drug Use, Rock Stars, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Tour Bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 122,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheCyclones/pseuds/WeAreTheCyclones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt from “Hale Pulls the Plug on the Future of Rock,” Rolling Stone, Issue 1203 – Oct. 2014<br/>“Fans and music industry vets alike are left reeling in the wake of bassist Derek Hale’s sudden departure from Smokes for Harris. At a time when the foursome from Beacon Hills, California seems to be on the cusp of rock superstardom after just one double platinum record, Smokes has everything to lose.”</p><p>Excerpt from “Smokes for Harris: Gladiator,” SPIN.com – Feb. 2015<br/>“Smokes for Harris gives in a little to the pop punk of yesteryear in their sophomore effort, but rather than pandering to fans of a lost era they elevate the genre in a way that hasn’t been seen in quite some time. Frontman Stiles Stilinski works double duty as singer and primary songwriter and proves that he can handle the task even without former bassist Derek Hale."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Play Crack the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101436) by [mariinesvm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariinesvm/pseuds/mariinesvm)
  * Translation into Français available: [Play Crack the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245412) by [manboobs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manboobs/pseuds/manboobs)



> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

October, 2016.

Before this very moment, it'd been quite awhile since Derek Hale had seen Stiles Stilinski. Years. But he'd heard plenty. It was hard to avoid news about the boy who had changed his life and gone on to become... well.

Derek is staring, Stiles is smoking. The cigarette’s glow intensifies and dims with each breath, illuminating his sharp features. He reaches up to pluck it from his lips, flicks the ashes onto the porch and replaces it.

"You gonna let me in or what?" he asks, voice rough.

"Put out the cigarette and I'll consider it."

He drops it and crushes it under his heel. "How about now?"

"Why are you here?"

"Had a gig in San Francisco yesterday, have a show in Sacramento tomorrow. Figured I'd drop in."

"So what's the difference between a gig and a show?"

Stiles smiles for the first time since Derek opened his door. "One makes me sound like a musician; the other makes me sound like a successful musician."

"They both make you sound like an asshole."

"C'mon, let me in, it's cold out here." And he flashes that same smile, full of conspiracy and promises. And Derek relents.

Looking at him now, Derek can still see the boy who led him astray. Amber eyes, pale skin, dark hair. The strange air of sophistication. The moody depths of his moody heart. The thrill of suggestion, the promise of debauchery, the sexual allure. His thin frame carries it all. Hell, if the island of misfit toys Derek had crash landed on in high school hadn’t been ruled by him, Derek would have stuck to lacrosse and pretty blonde cheerleaders. The girls in the audience might love the music, but if it weren’t for their charismatic front man…

Derek leans against the door frame and stares at Stiles as he makes himself at home at the kitchen table. “Can an old friend get a drink?” he asks.

“Sure.”

Derek opens the fridge and fishes out a beer.

“Didn’t have to be alcoholic, but I like where this is going,” Stiles says when Derek sets it down in front of him.

Sex. That’s what Stiles embodies. The slow smirk, the soulful eyes, the predatory gaze. Derek fell so hard for it then, but he wouldn’t now.

“Which way are you swinging these days?” Stiles asks. Stiles’ ability to access Derek’s thoughts is just as unsettling as ever.

“For the fences,” Derek responds.

“Baseball joke, cute.”

“Does it matter?”

“You don’t have to be so damn cagey. Here, I’ll show you: I fuck anything pretty that wants me to fuck them. Your turn.”

“So the band is doing well, I take it,” Derek asks.

“Don’t be coy and don’t change the subject,” Stiles answers.

“It’s not every day I have to endure small talk with a successful rock star such as yourself, forgive me.” Derek hopes there’s a nice balance of malice and laughter dripping from his words.

“You are forgiven,” Stiles counters.

And god, he is cool. Long legs, tight black pants, scuffed boots, flannel under a tight black jacket, fingerless gloves. It’s so calculated, but it works. His hair is longer now than it was, disheveled and fashionable. Derek looks at him and even though he’s older, he is the exact same person down to the very posture and energy as he was all those years ago.

“Oh fuck off,” Derek says when he remembers to speak. “Why are you here?”

“I told you already—“

“Why are you here and not at your father’s?”

“Because I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

Stiles tilts his beer bottle back and drinks, amber eyes trained on Derek, and then sets it down and nudges it toward him. “Drink.”

“Why did you want to see me?”

“I wanted to see if you still had that James Dean thing going for you,” he answers after a pause. He smirks, eyes twinkling, and nudges the beer bottle even closer. “Drink. You’re on edge.”

“Of course I’m on edge, after two years of radio silence, you just show up—“

“Yes, after two years, I can no longer keep away from your doorstep, Der. Take a fucking drink, cool your jets and let me fucking collect myself.”

Derek drinks.

“I know you hate me for what I did,” Stiles mutters, façade crumbling.

Derek offers no input.

“Listen, it was wrong. I know. But the label—“

“Stiles, I’m in law school, I don’t want to be in your little boy band, life is working out just fine for me. Let it go.”

“MY little boy band? Excuse me?”

Derek smiles. Stiles splutters, his face flashing between angry and shocked. He finally settles on amused. “You son of a bitch.”

“I’m not mad about the song, I’m mad that you disappeared.”

Stiles takes the beer back and takes another long drink. “Blame that one on the label too.”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean it. You know I loved you.”

“So you said.”

“Thunder and lightning, fire and smoke, your hand is the one I’m reaching for, whoa-oh,” Stiles quotes lifelessly. “That one is about you, you know.”

“Even the part after that? “Oh sweetheart, kiss me before you go, you’re the girl worth fighting for”?”

“Well, well, how about that boy band now, Hale?”

“Hard to miss it considering how many times they play it on the radio. I really like that you guys rhymed “for” with “for.” Very smart.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I mean, what’s the difference, right? NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, Fall Out Boy and Panic! At the Disco, One Direction, and now Smokes for Harris. You’re just the new thing the girls are screaming about.”

Stiles just shrugs. “Fair enough. But anyway, that song is still about you.”

“So I’m the girl worth fighting for?”

“Apparently, you’re the big bitch baby worth fighting for. The label wanted us to go for sexual ambiguity on stage, so you’ll be pleased to know that I tell Scott he’s the guy worth fighting for every night on tour.”

“Remember when you told me I sold out…?”

“Shut up, okay? Just shut up.”

He steals the beer back from Derek and takes another drink. When he sets the bottle back on the table, he has carefully arranged his face to a perfect level of haughtiness.

"Don't forget that you used to be one of us."

Derek scoffs.

"One of us, one of us," Stiles chants.

"Used to be, used to be," Derek chants back.

Stiles used to play at being an outcast, but he was just as desired at school as Derek had been at the top of his game. Sometimes even more desired. Everyone’s eyes followed Stiles down the hall and he had known it. He grinned flirtatiously at the jocks in the hall, eye-fucked the pretty girls with a maddening half-smirk, slipped innuendo into class discussions that implied he’d sleep with the teacher if they’d just ask already… people’s eyes swept up his body from his skinny jeans to his head phones and watched him strut down the hallway and they wanted to be him. Every single person, deep down, wanted to be Stiles Stilinski. And they still did. They had all wanted to sleep with him, and even Derek had fought tooth and nail to gain that sole privilege. He had been untouchable, unobtainable and utterly devastatingly dangerous.

And now this godlike creature was sitting at his dining room table. Stinking of nicotine and sweat and leather and stale coffee. Dark circles under his eyes. The silence stretches between them, eyes glued to one another.

Stiles had gotten Derek into a lot of trouble. He’d been a bad influence. And that was just before the first album dropped. He’d reshaped Derek’s life into something a little bit more spectacular and then when things went wrong… when things started to change… when Stiles and the band moved to LA to record a second album and Derek didn’t want to be a part of it and Stiles didn’t fight for him… well, Derek was left behind, confused and utterly lost in his wake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read this over about a thousand times myself, but regardless: this is unbeta'd. This fic has been in my brain forever and I figured if I didn't just start working on it and posting it, it would never happen. So there you have it!


	2. For Baltimore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Psst, I've gone back and made it clearer that the events of the intro are from the future of this little 'verse.)

August 2nd.  
Baltimore, MD

The first thing he hears is the curtain to his bunk being torn aside. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut against the impossible brightness outside until he can make out a silhouette. 

“Press call in five,” Allison says, voice markedly disappointed.

“Five? Phone interview?”

“There’s a film crew in the green room.”

“Shit.”

Allison throws something at his chest and draws back so Stiles could slide out of the top bunk – punishment, Scott had said, for his poor behavior in Toronto. Truth be told, Stiles deserved it. Stiles’ hand closes around the cool plastic of his sunglasses before he makes the perilous plunge. 

“You look like hell, put those on.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Watch it, Stilinski. I want you changed and in that green room in under three minutes.”

With that, she turns and stomps out of the bus.

“What a woman,” Scott sighs, voice muffled by his curtain and boyish infatuation.

“Shut up. Why don’t you have to come?”

“I already did my interview.”

“Son of a bitch.”

**

“Your first album, Tempest, debuted five years ago, almost to the day.”

“Wow.” Insert charming laugh. “I guess so.”

“How does that feel?”

“Incredible, crazy, unreal… it’s been a wild five years. That album was sort of our last hope. We hung everything we had on the line for that beast. I’m very grateful.”

“You guys got a lot of radio play out of it but nothing like _Girl Worth Fighting For_.”

“Yeah, Tempest really set the stage for us but the second album got us somewhere. Kind of like, not to seem cocky, Fall Out Boy with their first two albums. We’re nowhere near as legendary as them but, who knows? Maybe someday.” Evade, evade, evade…

“Did you expect that to be the song that came to define Smokes for Harris?”

“Honestly, we wrote it as a big middle finger to the label because they kept telling us we didn’t have a single. So in a way, we manufactured it to be a hit and it worked.”

“It does sound dramatically different from the rest of your work. But if it was manufactured… is the girl worth fighting for really out there?”

“Oh yes, she’s real. She exists. And not in that bullshit sort of… imaginary hopeful way. She’s an actual person who I was really in love with at the time.”

“At the time?”

“Well, she still haunts me to this day, doesn’t she?” Friendly smirk goes here.

Stiles was great at these. Even with sunglasses. Even without having showered for a couple of days. Even hung over. He was a music journalist’s dream subject in that he would comply and answer and answer and sparkle for the camera and give them great sound bites and pull quotes. He was open with them, or so they thought, so they wouldn’t feel the need to go digging around. Five years later, his strategy was still working.

“She haunts all of us, I think,” the journalist agrees. “But with this next album, Smokes has taken a turn for the darker. What inspired that?”

“We’ve always had it in us. We’re older, so we’re more introspective about the things we’ve been through. When we were younger and the right sort of age group to put out a genre-suitable revivalist pop punk album, we were too excited to be making music and hanging out with our friends to be sad about anything.”

“And in love?”

Stiles’ smile almost falters. Yeah. In love. You could say that. “Yeah, total puppy love across the board. I think Scott was infatuated with a new girl every week. He’d see someone at a show when we were still playing in shitty NorCal bars and he’d be down to get married in the morning. Unlike a lot of people who rise up in this scene, we embraced being happy and crazy and in love and young. So that’s why with this album we’re really exploring what the repercussions of our earlier actions mean for us now. The single we just dropped, Beacon, is my confessional in a way.”

“And it’s a beautiful song.”

“Thanks! I’m happy with it.”

“It reminds me of your first album – it has all the high energy of that record – but it feels like this band has a lot more to say.”

“Well thank you, that really means a lot. We worked really hard to make this little labor of love.”

In support of this album, Stiles had only been asked about Derek once. (“How has your creative process evolved over the last two albums without Derek Hale?”) Allison saw to it that any questions regarding Derek Hale were banned, thankfully, but Stiles could still see how badly they all wanted to shoehorn Derek in where he had no business being. From diehard fangirls and boys to uninformed arts columnists, they all wanted to know. 

**

After the interview, the rest of the band trickled into the green room in search of libations. The techs and roadies are spread throughout the venue – some setting up the PA, some setting up the merch, some catching up with local crew buddies. Stiles knows this simply because it’s the 20th tour stop. This is all old hat by now. Scott is carefully stacking things on top of a napping Isaac while Erica records it on her phone. (It’s the little things that keep tour life bearable. Little things like Instagram and Vine.) Lydia is inspecting the sandwiches laid out by venue staff, grabbing what pleases her before she heads out to the stage to inspect her set.

If Stiles is expected to take sound check seriously, he needs a little hair of the dog. “Boyd, pal, buddy.”

“Allison said no.”

“But you have no idea what I’m going to ask you for—“

“Allison said no. Allison said water and a nap.”

“You guys are in cahoots and I don’t like it. Worst manager and tour manager ever.”

“What city are we in?” Boyd asked, crossing his arms across his impressive chest.

“That’s literally your job to know and handle.”

“Stilinski.”

“We are in… Atlanta?”

“Three days ago, yes.”

“Um… Charlotte?”

“We’re in Baltimore. Allison wants you sober enough to know where we are.”

“But all these venues are starting to look the same!”

There’s no winning once Boyd and Allison have teamed up though, so Stiles lets it go. “Water, then?”

Boyd gestures to the tables set up by catering and then goes to check on the front of house operations. 

**

“Good evening, Baltimore,” Stiles purrs into the mic. The crowd goes wild. “How are we feeling this evening?” Even louder. “You all ready for this rock show shindig we have planned?” Deafening. “I don’t know that you’re ready. Scott, do we think they’re ready?”

“I don’t know man.”

“Lydia? How’s the crowd tonight?”

“Ehhh,” she says, twirling her drum stick in one hand. “I’ve seen crazier.”

“Isaac?”

“I think they’ve got potential.”

“Well let’s see. Let’s see, let’s see… how about we get them warmed up a little?”

Lydia starts keeping beat. Kick drum, snare, kick drum, snare… and Isaac starts a heartbeat of a bass line… and Scott starts clapping his hands over his head… 

The audience falls into line, clapping along with Scott and Lydia, cheering, stomping. 

“Chant with me, everyone,” Stiles says and they already know what’s coming. “Thunder and lightning, fire and smoke…” 

With the crowd whipped up to a frenzy, with Lydia’s steady but quickening beat, with Isaac’s heartbeat bass line becoming more and more staccato they’ve got the beginnings of a good show on their hands. And when Scott stops clapping and starts playing… this is a night these kids will never forget. The kids are singing the first verse already, a unified wall of voices and this right here is why Stiles does what he does. 

“Scott, I think they may have heard this one before,” Stiles says with faux suspicion and a laugh before he starts singing.

**

As it turned out, Baltimore was a great show. Scott can’t decide if it was greater than Toronto but then decides it was. “I mean, there’s no question whether or not we’re allowed back to Maryland. Canada, however…” and he shoots a look at Stiles. 

“Hey. I’m allowed back in Canada, we know this. They decided not to press charges after all.”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way,” Allison says, handing Stiles a beer. “And you’re welcome for the beer too.” She smiles that smile that tells Stiles he was a good boy and put on a good show. As much as Stiles asserts that young rock star life has not made him an overgrown manchild, he is sort of an overgrown manchild and approval from Allison is the greatest.

They’re already back on the road, en route to New York where they will be playing Madison fucking Square sonofabitch Garden. Then they have press and label meetings and every brand of tedium that goes along with the business side of things. Which is mostly Allison’s deal. But for the band, all of that boils down to hotel nights. Sweet, sweet hotel nights. The possibility of getting laid in privacy. The possibility of sleeping on a surface that isn’t hurtling down deserted highways. The reality of clean showers and the promise of functioning air conditioning.

“I’m proud of you, you know?” Allison says softly when everyone else is engrossed in loud conversation.

“Why?”

She downs the dredges of her beer bottle in one go and sets it down with a clink. “I just am.”

Stiles grins at her and she smiles back. “Thanks.” 

She could be proud for just as many reasons as she could be ashamed, but tonight, after a good show, halfway through the tour, she’s smiling. Which is a lot better than this point in the last tour, when she was yelling. Stiles finishes his own beer, kisses her on the cheek and bids goodnight to everyone. For good measure, he takes Scott’s middle bunk as a reward.

**

August 3rd.  
New York City

Madison Square Garden is sold out by the time they roll up to the venue in cars rented for them by the label. The buses are being cleaned and tuned up while the traveling circus plants some roots for the next few days.

“Sold out,” Scott whispers as he looks up at the marquee. 

“Who would have imagined a little punk band from Beacon Hills would sell out the Garden, huh?” Stiles says. Scott smiles at him and nudges his shoulder against his.

This was never his dream, not really. Scott would have been just as happy as a veterinarian or doctor or astronaut. And he could have been. Not a lot of people knew that back before the band and proportionally even fewer people know now. The pool of people who knew who Scott McCall was had grown dramatically, and rightfully so. Scott may have never seen himself as destined for fame, but Stiles had always seen that spark in him. He often said that no one on earth was a greater and more dedicated Scott McCall fan than he was and he wasn’t kidding.

Stiles had always wanted this though. He didn’t start a band just to start one. He got his ragtag group of friends together and they formed this thing and Stiles never once thought this wasn’t going to happen for them. Even when the others were debating whether or not to quit the band to go to school instead, Stiles believed this was in the stars for them. Well, not selling out Madison Square Garden. But the successful band part, yes.

Lydia had wanted to go into jet propulsion, of all things. And Derek had wanted this too… and then he suddenly didn’t. And Isaac was generally happier out of the limelight, tinkering with guitars and amps and the like, but he loved being near music and getting to do it all the time. Stiles wasn’t sure about Allison, but she was a born leader and a pure, all-natural rock and roll kind of woman. Stiles was convinced her only real career options were either the presidency or being a rock band wrangler. Luckily for them and unfortunately for America, she was all theirs. It was to her that Smokes for Harris owed their undying gratitude. 

And it is she who slams a newspaper against the window before Scott and Stiles can climb out. Scott squints at the newsprint that is already smudging against the water droplets on the glass.

“In a sea of New York’s top artists, celebrities and socialites blah blah blaaah. Oh. Derek Hale, former bassist of platinum selling band Smokes for Harris, was spotted at the gallery opening smuuuuudge smudge smudge, more on page C8,” Scott reads out loud. 

“Shit.”

“Oh here we go,” Lydia mutters from the other side of Stiles as she thrusts her door open. 

Allison yanks their door open, shoves Scott past her and looks sternly at Stiles. 

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asks, hoping his voice is as flat and emotionless as he currently feels. Oh the void is swallowing him whole…

“Don’t do anything. Don’t track him down. Don’t do a damn thing. Don’t over-drink, don’t over-compensate. I want you clear headed tonight. This isn’t the Lucky Horseshoe in downtown Beacon Hills, this is Madison Square Garden.”

“We’ve never played the Horseshoe,” Stiles points out idly. He feels awash as he is escorted to the backstage area.

“Not the point.”

“So why’d you tell me he was spotted in town, then?” Stiles asks, voice wavering.

“Because I knew you’d find out anyway.”

She was probably right. Mutual friends would probably text him. Fans would probably relentlessly tweet him about it. Luckily there hadn’t been a picture attached to the article. Luckily he hadn’t seen the whole article.

“I don’t care that he’s here.” Lie. “It’s not like he’s going to be in the audience.”

Stiles purposefully kept himself busy right up until sound check. He restrung his own guitar. He helped the sound guys run cable, even. He hadn’t helped set up a PA since the first tour, but today he was very interested in all of this. Arrays and monitors and stuff. Very important. Subwoofers are the best.

He wasn’t going to think about being in the same city as Derek. He wasn’t going to wonder if Derek would come. He wasn’t going to imagine seeing him backstage. He was just nervous about the venue. 

A casual observer would probably think it was strange that a former bassist was still worth being mentioned in a newspaper culture section. And they would be right. But Derek Hale is more than just a former bassist. He was the heart throb, obviously. Tall, dark, broad, broody, mysterious, sweet as a shy kitten in interviews, shirtless on stage… He is also one of the greatest living bassists. And not a bad songwriter either. Derek had an ear for music that was totally unprecedented. He could write lyrics and compose instrumentation almost simultaneously, sometimes. He understood the English language and poetry and chord progressions and rhythm better than anyone Stiles had worked with. And all of that was very well known. His exit from the band was a shock, his refusal to go solo or start another band was an outrage and his retirement from music as a whole was an absolute travesty. Rolling Stone ran a cover story called “Hale Pulls the Plug on the Future of Rock.” It was dramatic, yeah, and the article included an insert where music professionals (producers, engineers, label types, other bassists, etc.) listed reasons why Derek Hale should come out of retirement. 

Needless to say, those had been very dark days for all of them and the media had been relentlessly pessimistic about their future. They had just wanted people to believe in them, to mourn with them. They had lost more than their bassist, they had lost one of their best friends. And, in Stiles’ case, his… 

“Deep breaths, Stilinski,” Lydia calls from her set. “No hyperventilating until after sound check.”

Sound check, right. 

Madison Square Garden, empty and cavernous. About to be filled with screaming fans. The press boxes sure to be brimming with reporters. VIP guests with security details. Stiles had never played here before, but he’d been one of those VIP guests (to a Lady Gaga concert...) when they were in between the American and European tours in support of Tempest. Derek had grabbed his hand and pulled him off into the dark writhing crowd while then-head of security Boyd was distracted by someone hitting on Lydia. 

Madison Square Garden. Sold out. A sea of thousands and thousands and thousands of people, sweating and singing, hands in the air… and Stiles will only be able to focus on the hypothetical attendance of one person and the ghosts of two kids fucking in a bathroom stall. Derek Hale. Still as powerful as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Play Crack the Sky is a Brand New song. (And you should definitely listen to it just for self-betterment.)
> 
> For Baltimore is an All Time Low song. (The only significance it has in regards to this chapter is the word/place Baltimore and the fact that it's a song title from a particular genre... ho ho ho, I sense a trend.)
> 
> Also for honesty and transparency's sake, here's a little insight: I am great at writing strict dialogue and I am great at writing pure exposition/introspection. I struggle at doing both at the same time, in the same body of work. I am trying so very hard! Feel free to point out when I'm being a wonk-master!


	3. New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down

August 4th.

Stiles is sweating in the alley. Breathing deep the humid, thrumming air of New York City. The sirens all bleed together into a wail punctured with blaring horns underscored by a neon buzz. This city makes him feel sick. God, it’s so hot here. So loud, so busy, so big.

His phone hasn’t stopped vibrating in his pocket since they realized he was gone. He takes a drag of his cigarette, hand shaking.

He’s been gone for an hour.

Madison Square Garden. What an honor. What a horror. Stiles could hardly remember the show itself. Did it go well? Hopefully. He’d like to come back sometime. In his experience, stage fright doesn’t strike the same venue twice. 

At least he didn’t panic until afterward. It was an out of body experience and then suddenly they were rushing off the stage after the encore and it all came crashing down. 

Sirens, flashing lights, footsteps on the pavement, and suddenly Allison.

“God, don’t you… don’t you ever…” she pants. She slaps the cigarette out of his hands and pulls him into a bone crushing hug. “Don’t you ever just run away and sit in an alley for an hour, don’t you ever…”

“I’m going to have to revoke your Find My iPhone privileges.”

“I thought you were dead, don’t fucking joke with me.” There’s an ersatz anger leaning against those words, but Stiles knows better.

Allison drags Stiles by the elbow back to the waiting police car. Just the one. Stiles recognizes the cop as one of the dudes assigned to crowd control for the night. 

“How’d it go?” Stiles asks once they’re walking through the hotel lobby.

“It went great.”

“Where are the others?”

“Out.”

Stiles sighs and leans against the elevator wall. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you on anything?”

“No.”

Allison’s eyes bore into him, searching… searching… no results found. “Okay,” she says, sounding tired. The elevator bings a few times and the doors slide open. Allison wordlessly hands him his room key and walks him to his room. “Get some rest.”

“Listen, Al, we were at… DEFCON 4 back there.” She nods. “That’s it, I promise.”

“Next time, tell me.”

“I will.”

“I’m not going to have another Gladiator Summer Tour 2015 catastrophe, Stiles.”

“Me neither,” Stiles says softly.

“I won’t be able to cover for you again. I won’t do it.”

“Allison, I know.”

The angry little wrinkle in her brow smooths out and her eyes soften. “We’ll talk in the morning.” She places a cool palm on Stiles’ cheek, and just before things get too sweet she pulls away and slaps the back of his head. 

“You still proud of me?” Stiles calls after her as she walks away.

“Yes!” 

The inside of his hotel room looks like every other hotel room he’s ever been in, and that’s more comforting than anything. He kicks off his shoes at the doorway and strips on his way to the shower. He just wants to stop sweating. He wants his heart rate to even out.

It feels like tonight’s performance was years ago now. It’s tucked itself in neatly with the rest of those panicky moments – the first time they played the Palladium, every single night of the Asia tour, the first day in the recording studio without him… So not rock and roll. But it hadn’t happened in so long. Just a minor slip up. 

Post-shower Stiles is much happier than pre-shower Stiles. He’s naked in the sheets, skin cool, hair dripping down his neck. His phone is telling him that it’s nearly three in the morning and that he has twenty-six missed calls and sixty-seven unread text messages. The newest message is from Scott, and all it says is: “We killed it tonight, bro. See you tomorrow.” There’s one from Lydia that’s just a picture of Isaac with a drag queen in his lap. 

He wishes he was with them as he deletes all the inevitable “Derek’s in New York” texts that he knew he was going to get. 

**

“Do you know how much went into trying to get this place open again?” Scott asks, looking up at their destination with wonder. “Like, this place is a landmark, right? So much has happened here, so much music and poetry and stuff. And people still live here and they keep trying to renovate it but it’s been closed forever. This is seriously so cool.”

The Hotel Chelsea. The Chelsea Hotel. Apparently Scott is really big on it. 

“It looks haunted,” Isaac says as though that’s a good thing. 

“It is! It has to be!” Scott exclaims. “But like, Leonard Cohen, Allen Ginsberg, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Iggy Pop…”

“This is the saddest place I’ve ever seen,” Lydia comments as Scott keeps rattling off names.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Cool place for a photo shoot though.”

“Yep.”

**

Take 5…

“Hey there! I’m your host Marin Morrell and you’re watching The Daily Drone on MTV. With us in the studio today are the fine people of Smokes for Harris!”

Cue the studio audience cheering. The producer shakes his head, says something into his headset and calls cut.

Take 6…

**

“A big thanks to Smokes for Harris for hanging out with us this afternoon. It’s been a real pleasure to have you back on the show.”

“Thanks, man, it’s always good to drop by,” Stiles says, ignoring how sweaty his ears feel under the headphones.

“Hey, if any of you end up relocating to New York, consider yourselves hired as co-hosts. I mean it.”

“You’ll regret that if it comes true,” Isaac says ominously as he starts playing the Jaws theme on his acoustic bass.

“Well before the band eats us all alive, they’ve agreed to cap off the hour and play us out in style with an acoustic performance of Beacon off their newest album Fingerprints, which by the way is incredible and you need to get it if you haven’t already.”

“Yeah, just download it or something. We won’t tell anyone.”

“You heard it here, folks. Anyway, here they go. Until the next time, kids!”

**

“Yeah it’s um… S-T-I-L-I-N-S-K-I… Stilinski, yeah… First name? S-T-I-L-E-S… Um, consider it a stage name…” the reporter on the other end of the line is muttering to himself as he writes. Stiles rubs his eyes and fights back a yawn. “Why didn’t I pick something cooler? Because I didn’t pick my name for a rock band, I’ve just always gone by it… Okay, yes, question time…”

At the conference table next to him, Scott is answering plenty of banal questions himself. Lydia bowed out of all this early, claiming that no one really cares about the drummer anyway. Which is so not true in her case, but Allison permitted it anyway. Isaac hates phone interviews and refuses to do them, so he’s probably napping in his hotel room.

When Stiles finishes the thankfully brief final interview, he’s officially made it to the other side of press day. Turns out, days off from the road are overrated. 

**

“What happened last night?” Lydia asks, her voice raised just high enough to be heard over the loud music.

“You still haven’t told me about Isaac’s drag queen,” Stiles counters.

“Stiles, you disappeared from the venue and Allison almost had a heart attack. You first.”

One time in Albuquerque, Scott failed to show up on time to a bus call. In Scott’s case, he’d just been getting breakfast with some girl he’d fallen in love with after the show. Difference in situation aside, Stiles can approximate what it had been like the night before based off of that. 

Stiles lets his head thunk against the bar and looks up at Lydia with a frown. “I don’t know, Lyds, it was just… the usual.”

She raises an eyebrow and waits for further explanation.

“Like, some weird adrenaline come-down mixed with a delayed wave of anxiety. Purely venue related…”

She releases her raised eyebrow with a sigh and gives Stiles a sympathetic look. “Where’d you go?”

“Some alley, I don’t really know. I just ran. I wasn’t far from the Garden. Allison found me, kicked my ass and put me to bed.”

“We were scared, we wanted to go with her but she told us to go out.”

“And I’m sure you had a much better night than I did because of her.”

“I was worried, but sure. I guess. It just… that hasn’t happened in awhile.”

“Nah, we’ve played a lot of venues in this country. It’s hard to find a new one to scare me with. Who knows, maybe I was cured last night. I can’t think of anything more daunting than that.”

“I can.”

“Keep them to yourself.”

Lydia laughs and reaches out to run a hand through Stiles’ hair. “I wish any one of us had that special power to keep you from running off.”

“No one does, I am a wild and untamed thing.”

“It’s cute how you’ve blocked out our first tour so completely.”

“Hey! No I haven’t—“

“Guys, some dude just kissed Isaac and you two absolutely neeeeeed to be drinking more!” Scott yells, arms suddenly thrown around both of their shoulders.

“Was that dude you?” Lydia asked.

“Get me a couple shots and we’ll see, Martin!” 

When Lydia laughs, her whole face lights up. She is instantly the 17 year old girl who used to smoke weed in her parents’ garage after band practice and laugh about everything all over again. Not the aloof fashion icon she’s become, not the haughty taste-maker… just Lydia Martin. Stiles examines her as she fake argues with Scott about whether or not she wants to see him kiss Isaac and he can’t quite remember the last time he saw her so… shiny. Watching two of his best friends like this, as if they were normal people… college students in a campus pub or something… makes him feel warm all over. Or maybe that’s the beer. 

He grabs Scott and kisses his cheek and then grabs Lydia and kisses hers. “No more fighting! Let’s drink more. Where’s Isaac?”

“OH, I totally left him,” Scott says with a devious grin. “He can fend for himself.”

“We need him for a toast, go find him.”

**

It’s his signature move. The bathroom stall thing, that is. And this guy is… small and effeminate and has one hell of a mouth on him. Apparently he’s an actor… will be an actor? Going to school for it? Something? He wants to do Broadway… but don’t they all? Stiles is having a difficult time keeping the planes of existence in line. Everything fogs out and becomes clear and fogs out and twists…

He’s so flexible too… the guy’s chest is pressed against the wall and Stiles is pressed against him, moving against him, and he cranes his head back and moans right into Stiles’ mouth. Tongue on tongue, sweat on sweat. Stiles wants him to feel it in the morning. Bruises on his hips, scratches on his ribs, hickeys on his neck and shoulders…

And when it’s all over, Stiles thinks he can remember what he’s supposed to do next…

“What’s your name again?” the guy asks, breathing heavy still.

“Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down ~~is a very long song title~~ is an LCD Soundsystem song. 
> 
> Thanks for the lovins, guys! :)


	4. Timberwolves at New Jersey

August 6th.  
Atlantic City

Stiles sits on the bus with Erica, picking out notes on his guitar while she puzzles over her small, portable keyboard. Two hours to go until sound check and Stiles has no interest in leaving the bus. They’ve been on tour for almost exactly a month now, less than a month to go. And he saw him.

From afar, but still.

Maybe.

For the first time in two years… if that tall, dark-haired flash of a person was even him. It might not have been. Stiles had been curled up in the lounge at the back of the bus, the window shades up so he could watch the city get smaller and smaller as they crossed the border into Jersey. Or, as it turned out, so he could watch the crawling traffic behind them as they inched out of the city. Just as he was about to give up and join his band mates in the front lounge, Maybe-Derek sauntered out of a restaurant and ducked into a waiting cab. 

What a sick joke.

Stiles wondered if he’d been at the show… wondered if he’d heard the new album… wondered how he felt about it if he had… wondered and wondered all the way across the state line and still couldn’t stop wondering.

He is suddenly brought back to the present when Erica starts singing as she slowly plunks away at the keys, working her way through the song they’re trying to learn. “Alright, I think I’ve got it…” she says after humming and playing the same part over and over again a couple times.

“And the verdict is?”

“We both stay on melody and we improvise harmonies.”

“You are going to give me a heart attack.”

“Then you stay on melody and I’ll improvise harmonies. I just really want to stop agonizing over it.”

“Alright, fine. I trust your ability to harmonize better than mine.”

“Me too.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Erica grins at him and pounds out a bar or two of something classical as if to show off the breadth and depth of her prodigious talent. “Ready to try it out?”

Stiles loves singing with Erica. Her raspy, jazzy voice melds with his in a way that resonates in his chest. It’s the feeling of harmony, magic, musical compatibility… They’ve joked all tour that if they had grown up together, they’d have Captain and Tennille’d their way up the soft pop charts and into the hearts of the nation. (“And then you’d have fallen tragically out of vogue and been ridiculed for the rest of your life,” Lydia had said with a tinge of territorial aggression.)

“Yes, ma’am.”

**

“Hey Jersey, you guys look so good tonight,” Stiles informs their audience. “You’ve overwhelmed the band, so they’re taking a breather. While they gather themselves, we’re going to try something a little new tonight. How’d you guys like our good friends in Royales?” Stiles waits a beat for the wild cheering from the audience. “Dudes, me too. How’d you like if I invited the lovely Erica Reyes out here to sing a little tune with me?”

She appears onstage amid the thunderous audience reaction and goes to the piano that has been rolled out on stage.

“We’re in love with this song, it’s called Vienna and it’s by Billy Joel and we hope you’ll like what we’ve done with it.

The crowd eats it up and it’s a great way to launch into the last half of the set. He can feel them all under his skin. He feels close to every blurry, upturned face in the undulating wave of bodies. Nights like this make Stiles want to be a better singer, a better guitar player, a better frontman. For them. For the people who know all the words to all their songs. He professes his undying love for them when they come back out for the encore and he really means it tonight.

But despite a great show and despite being endlessly thankful that he gets to tour with his oldest friends and some brand new ones, Stiles doesn’t have it in him to celebrate. He listens to their boisterous conversations out in the lounge from his bunk while focusing on the rocking motion of the bus. He’s been touring so long that his bunk doesn’t really feel claustrophobic anymore… 

He hears the door between the lounge and the sleeping area slide open, followed by soft footsteps. 

“I know you’re awake,” Lydia says.

Stiles doesn’t answer.

“Are you okay?”

He considers staying quiet for a second before he sighs audibly for her benefit. “I’m just tired, Lyds.”

“Sure, we all are… but I mean… I remember Hale barbeques just as much as you do. All Billy Joel, all the time, that family had a serious thing for old piano rock and it was weird. And…”

Stiles pushes his curtain aside to look down at her. She’s leaning against the opposite wall of bunks, hair up in a sloppy bun. She looks exhausted. Sad, almost. “And what?”

“I know you miss him.”

“I hardly ever even think about him—“

“And then he shows up in New York at the same time as us, right?”

Stiles is about to answer in the same vein as his previous denial when Lydia flashes him a very rare watery little smile. 

“Because I know, trust me. I know.”

Stiles reaches a hand down to her and she takes it with a gentle squeeze. “Yeah.” 

“You and Erica sound great together, you two should keep doing covers. Vienna and whatever else you want.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Loved it.”

“The band should come back on at the end, give it a big finish.”

“Sure.” She squeezes his hand again and then releases. “Get some sleep.”

“You still have to tell me about Isaac’s drag queen,” he calls after her as she leaves.

**

August 7th.  
(Philadelphia)

Scott is playing video games in the lounge when Stiles wakes up. They’re parked outside of the venue and the sun is just rising. If anyone had told him how much waiting comes with touring, he’d have picked up a hobby. Whittling, maybe. 

“Morning, buddy,” Stiles says as he flops onto the couch next to him.

“Hey, man, how’re you feeling?”

Stiles grunts in a vaguely positive way and Scott accepts it with a nod. 

“You?” Stiles asks.

Scott grunts back in a similar fashion.

Stiles settles into the couch and revels in the comfort of Scott’s proximity. This is a scene straight out of every year of their life since early childhood. And even though Scott always threatens to take a vacation from Stiles once they get back home from tour, he knows that he’ll probably wake up on the third day off to Scott banging on the door and demanding attention. He smiles at the thought of it. Lydia usually takes off on an adventure of her own. He’d seen her looking at plane tickets to Hawaii on a few different occasions. She always comes back with a suitcase flowing with kitschy things that reminded her of her little nomadic family. Isaac flies home to Chicago to spend time with his friends and family there and they always miss him and he always misses them back and ends up sleeping on their couches for weeks. 

It’s genuinely hard to function without them. 

But for the first time since leaving Beacon Hills, Stiles ached to go home for longer than a tour stop. He wanted to drive his old jeep around and bring takeout to his father at the station and sleep in his old room. They’d be playing in Beacon Hills, as they always did, for the third to last show. They'll have a few days off to spend time with their families and then they play Fresno and end the tour in LA. After the closing show, they will drink heavily and celebrate with their so-called friends and things will keep going on and on into the early hours of the next morning and then it’ll end because it has to eventually end. They always eventually have to go back to the ringing silence in their houses. They always have to face the empty fridges and cupboards, the dusty shelves, the stale clothes in the closet…

“I’m thinking of buying a place in Beacon Hills,” Stiles tells Scott.

“Really?” he asks. “Why?”

“I um… might want to take a break from LA. After Europe. Unwind, spend time with my dad, you know.”

“You don’t have to buy a place to do that, but more power to you.”

“I guess not.”

Stiles can’t bring himself to confess that he wants to move back. Build a studio. Bring everyone home with him. Simplify their lives. Go back to their roots. He loves touring, he loves being in this band, he loves publicity and attention and all of it. He loves Los Angeles, even. But it gets to be a bit much sometimes. 

Scott plays on and Stiles kind of watches. After awhile, Stiles realizes that the rest of the band and crew are gone (aside from the sleeping bus driver) and he wants to get out. When he stands up to get dressed, Scott pauses his game.

“I’m thinking of getting a dog when we get back.”

“Yeah? Cool. Do it.”

“Yeah… I just don’t know who would take care of it when we’re on the road.”

“Bring it with?”

“I don’t want a small dog, I want like… a substantial dog. A big slobbery thing. Not very bus friendly.”

“No… not very bus friendly at all.”

Stiles has known Scott long enough to know that he has more to say even though he’s turning back to his game. Stiles knows that this conversation got awkward really fast. Stiles knows that’s a new trend. Stiles knows. 

And Stiles wants to go see if he can get away with skateboarding around the venue and ignore everything he knows.

**

Thrum, click click. Thrum, click click. Thrum, click click click click… He’s just tired. Thrum, click click. It’s been a long tour. And New York really knocked him off his game. Derek, anxiety attack, press and business. He’s just rattled. Thrum, click click. 

He’s trying to focus on the sound of his wheels on the concrete, the steady drone of it and the sharp little interruptions made by his wheels crossing over cracks in the sidewalk. Boyd kicked him out of the house the second he saw his skateboard. Stiles retaliated by not telling him that he was leaving the premises to go skate around. 

Thrum, click click. Now that he’s put spoken syllables to it, he really can’t get it out of his head. Thrumclickclick. He is antsy and his hands are shaking and he hasn’t had a drink since New York and he needs a cigarette and he saw Derek for the first time in two years and he felt very cheated by the whole experience and thrumclickclick thrumclickclick… almost like a heartbeat but faster. He thinks of what it would take to recreate the sound on drums… a steady but soft roll on the floor tom followed by two hits on a closed hi-hat maybe. Or the rim of the snare… 

He’s trying to add a layer of some sort of melody when he skids his way through a puddle and finds himself flat on his ass as his skateboard continues down the sidewalk without him.

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles curses.

**

Allison looks up from her iPad when Stiles limps into the green room. “Where have you been?” she asks. Clearly Stiles was not missed while he was gone.

“I cracked my phone.”

“Sucks,” she says in a tone that means Stiles is going to have to deal with that all on his own. “I just got an email from the label. They want you guys to do a small club tour before you head off to Europe.”

“God, why?”

“Probably because this tour is consistently selling out. And by small, I mean miniscule. A couple nights in LA and then on to San Francisco, Sacramento, Chicago, Boston, New York and Austin. That’s it.”

“Tour bus?”

“Planes and hotels.”

“And then right off to Europe?”

“You get a week in between.”

The band has done a lot worse than that. “Sounds good.”

**

August 8th.  
Pittsburgh

They played Vienna again in Philly with the band joining in at the end for a gigantic rock and roll end that bled into the next song. After the show, Stiles and Scott talked to the fans who had waited by the buses while the crew loaded the trucks and a lot of them praised their little cover experiment and asked if they’d be doing different songs… to which Stiles said yes. 

By the time Stiles wakes up in Pittsburgh, the Smokes for Harris Facebook and all of their Twitter accounts are flooded with song requests. And that is why Stiles, Erica and Scott are trying to learn a Jeff Buckley song before a very fast approaching sound check. 

They’re keeping with the acoustic nature of Vienna and continuing the tradition of having to compose parts for instruments not originally in the song on top of arranging it into a duet. Stiles must miss the studio more than he realized, because he can feel life seeping back into him as they tinker around and argue and make it all come together.

When Stiles croons “maybe I’m just too young to keep good love from going wrong” into his mic in front of a crowd of thousands, he really means it and they'll never know. There's a list of songs back on the bus and there's only one other person in the world who can decode the pattern and deduce the significance, and that is the one person Stiles is really singing to. "Oh lover, you should have come over, it's not too late."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timberwolves at New Jersey is a Taking Back Sunday song.
> 
> Vienna is a Billy Joel song.
> 
> Lover, You Should Have Come Over is a Jeff Buckley song.
> 
> So much exposition and slow-burn build up, I know. It's about to get real. As always, thanks for the lovins, guys. <3


	5. Ohio is for Lovers

August 9th.  
Cleveland

“Remember when we thought touring was going to be like sex, drugs and alcohol and nonstop parties and all that shit?” Scott asks as he tries to loosen his tie. The wardrobe girl slaps his hands away and he pouts.

“Yep,” Stiles responds, tapping away at his phone while a tattooed girl does his makeup. 

“And then we got signed and it was awesome and then we got Allison and Allison made us go to bed early and be on vocal rest and stuff?”

Allison is on the phone not far from them and she shoots Scott a deathly glare to show she’s listening. Stiles just laughs.

“And now the most exciting things we do in between shows are photo shoots and interviews and stuff?” He gestures around their current set-up as if to provide evidence.

“Mhm.”

“I blame Allison.” He sends her his most darling grin while she rolls her eyes and goes out into the hallway to talk.

“She’s never made you drink Throat Coat, you have no room for complaint,” Stiles says.

Scott frowns. “That stuff smells awful.”

“It is awful.”

“Isn’t it like so sad that we have to take our jobs seriously? Like, I’m so disappointed that my career is going so well and I still don’t get my dick sucked in every city!” Lydia taunts from the chair next to Stiles. 

“Lydia gets me!” Scott exclaims, feigning obtuseness.

“I totally get you, bro.”

“Lydia, I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for you to get your dick sucked in every city,” Isaac assures her.

“Who says that I don’t?” 

Stiles eyes the reporter taking notes in the corner – mining for color, little pieces of character and chemistry. She’s going to write a glowing article that has little hints of humanity. She’ll probably mention that Lydia is distant and sometimes haughty, but highlight her grace and patience. She’ll write Scott up as the all-American charmer that he is, while maybe pointing out that he can be a tad distracted sometimes. They usually don’t like to criticize him, he’s the lovable one. Isaac will be described as quiet but affable, she’ll talk about how he’s a newcomer who fits in as though he was always there. Which, to her credit, he does. But to her discredit, she won't mention that he actually was always there… he’d been their bass tech since the beginning.

And Stiles will get the same write up as usual. Stiles is too agreeable with the press to ever get a bad write-up, so instead he sort of gets a classic rock star treatment. They all talk a lot about his “aura of control” and “too-cool” clothes and stuff. Which everyone who knows Stiles knows that is a pile of horseshit. But he'll take it.

The makeup girl tells him to look up and keep his eyes open as she sweeps some eyeliner along his bottom lash lines, and then they’re all shuffled off to the photographer.

**

When the band played their first Cleveland show back in 2012, they went out on the town with some of the good people at Alternative Press for a feature piece. On that fateful night, they were first introduced to Grog Shop (and its bar/arcade) which to this day is one of their favorite places to visit. Once Scott was told that the likes of Elliott Smith and Le Tigre had played there, he was sold. And without even having to discuss, they all knew that’s where they’d be spending their night. Allison was off to LA for a couple days of meetings to get them ready for Europe, the show went pretty well, and they were 25 nights deep into the tour. They deserved it.

“Anything going on at Grog tonight?” Lydia asks once they’re headed out. Erica elected to stay in and rest her voice but the rest of Royales and various crew members are with them.

Scott consults his phone. “Some local bands.”

Stiles has no intention of staying for too long so he doesn’t really care. The men of Royales and Isaac are placing bets on which of the absent crew guys are going to try to flirt their way into Erica’s bed. Stiles doesn’t tell them that Boyd’s way ahead of them because he’s not really supposed to know anyway. Stiles is glued to his phone and doesn’t offer any input into any of the conversations buzzing around him in the taxi van.

“Who have you been texting all day?” Scott asks, nudging him in the side.

“Ruiz.”

“Oh.”

Subject dropped.

Scott can be a tad hypocritical sometimes. For someone who is enamored with a new girl at least once a week, he is rather uptight about casual sex. Scott is a romantic, through and through. Stars in his eyes, grand gestures, rose petals, a thousand ideal engagement schemes at the ready… And Stiles is not. Stiles is all about having friends scattered around the country who he can laugh through great sex with.

And Ruiz, well… Ruiz is quite the exemplary specimen. Stiles is hard-pressed to remember his first name, but he met the guy when he was a pit photographer for a now defunct website. He went on to land a photographer position at AP but now he’s only in town between tour engagements. He’s beautiful and covered in tattoos and calm and experienced and worldly and easy to talk to. He’s toured with Smokes before so it’s not that Scott dislikes Ruiz. It’s just that Scott associates Ruiz and the other usuals with Stiles’ recklessness. 

Good thing Stiles doesn’t find it necessary to heed to Scott’s concerns. Tonight Ruiz is covering the happenings at Grog and the last band is done at midnight, which is fast approaching. 

**

“So how’s the whole… thing?” Ruiz asks, nude and sprawled across his bed. Stiles knows his eyes are closed even if his mop of dark curls are covering most of his face. 

Stiles holds the pipe to his lips, flicks the lighter on and inhales. Listens to the soft crackle. Feels the smoke curling up in his lungs. And exhales. “Shhh, you’re the press. Stop reminding me that a member of the press knows.”

“I’m just a dude who takes pictures.” He reaches his arm out and wraps his hand around Stiles’ bent knee. 

“The whole thing… the whole thing…” Stiles rests his head on the wall behind him and reaches to tangle his fingers with Ruiz’s. “The whole thing is fine.”

“So you’re sober?”

“Currently, noooo,” Stiles slurs for effect. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I’m sober.”

Ruiz was there for the whole Gladiator Summer Tour catastrophe. He could have been a very valuable source when the news outlets came knocking, asking questions about the cancelation of the last week of tour. But he didn’t say a thing. The official statement had said that Stiles was in treatment for a torn vocal cord. To this day, no one outside of the traveling circus present at the time knows that Stiles had OD’ed and landed himself in treatment.

“Good,” he murmurs.

“Are you falling asleep?” Stiles asks as he pulls away from the headboard to run his hand up Ruiz’s arm and across his chest. “Because it’s been so long since we’ve caught up…” He’s hovering over Ruiz now, lips close to his.

“Needy slut,” he says, hand coming up to the back of Stiles’ head. 

“It’s impossible to find dick like this in these United States, Ruiz. I have to get it when I can.” He straddles him and rocks against him.

“Does it look like I need your flattery?” he asks, voice gruff and low.

Stiles steals a quick look. “No it doesn’t,” he agrees. Everything feels so slow and hyper-real as Ruiz pulls him down into a sloppy open-mouthed kiss. 

**

August 10th.

On the edge of sleep, Stiles wraps his arm tighter around the warm body next to him. He can hear the wind chimes singing on the back porch. He shifts in his sleep and one big hand grasps Stiles’ forearm. Stiles wants to kiss the tattoo that spirals across his back. He snuggles even closer so his nose is tucked behind his ear, his soft curls against his cheek…. Curls?

“You gonna get that or what?” Ruiz grunts.

Stiles groans as he rolls away and follows the sound of his wind chime impersonating ringtone to where his phone lies under the bed. 

“’Sup?” he answers, already knowing what Boyd has to say.

“I sure hope you’re on your way.”

“Sure am, pal.”

“If you’re not here in fifteen minutes, have fun getting to Indy.”

Ruiz drops him off next to the bus and it starts to roll away. Stiles runs alongside it and yells his appeals to the driver or whoever might be listening. His legs feel leaden but he plods on. Boyd pushes the first window in the lounge open and frowns at him. “You’re late, Stilinski.”

“C’mon, man!”

He smiles his amused-at-Stiles’-expense smile and waits until Stiles has jogged a few more yards before he motions for the bus driver to let him on.

Scott, Lydia and Isaac are asleep while Boyd settles in to the booth with his laptop and a binder of paperwork to go over. Stiles has no one to keep him company and he is too well-rested to go back to sleep.

Stiles opts to tackle the stack of books he keeps in the abnormally spacious back lounge. He’s about a quarter way through _Fight Club_ when Erica texts him a list of song ideas for the night. She and the rest of the Royales are a couple hours ahead of them on the road. 

Rather than text, he decides to call her. “We’re not going to have a lot of time to work on it,” he says in lieu of a greeting when she answers.

“So pick something we kind of already know? Or we can repeat something.”

“Nah, let’s do something new.”

“Aiden is requesting that we do Rock Show,” she says. There is a burst of laughter and cheering in the background and Erica laughs with them before shooing them. “Like, the boys really want it.”

“Scott would be so down for that.”

“Done.”

“And we already know that one.”

“Perfect.”

“It’s quiet on your bus, huh?”

“They’re all asleep,” Stiles pouts.

The Royales’ bus is about the same size as Smokes’ but has twice the number of people and bunks. They travel with their backline techs and front of house engineers while Smokes’ travels two buses deep to accommodate their roadies. This is the first tour where Stiles hasn’t had to hear Greenberg’s throaty, god-awful snoring every night and it has been a blessing, but his extroverted heart misses the constant presence of other people.

Early on in the tour, bus assignments only really sometimes boiled down to where people slept at night. Everyone from band to crew, Royales to Smokes for Harris, spent a lot of time in the back lounge, guitars out and singing their way across state lines. But by now the road fatigue has settled in for everyone and the impromptu sing-alongs are few and far between. 

“I heard you disappeared with some dude last night.”

“Just a friend.”

“Oh, someone you actually know this time?”

Stiles would be offended had his track record not supported her comment. “Yep.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Not even a little bit.”

After he hangs up with Erica, he returns to his book. Something about the quiet of the bus, the summery gloom outside the windows and his gauzy hangover brain really sucks him into the world of Tyler Durden and Project Mayhem. He loses track of time and is only brought back to reality when Scott finally surfaces.

“Morning, sunshine. We’re going to do some Blink tonight. Exciting right?”

“I guess,” Scott says, not sounding very excited. 

“You okay?”

He fires off a short “fine” as he glares around the lounge.

He digs around through the general clutter that has accumulated throughout the tour and remains eerily silent. His too-long hair flops into his eyes and he flicks it away with an angry huff.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

He flips an empty gig bag over with his foot and retrieves a pair of headphones from underneath before storming out. 

**

Indy is not a good show. They got to the venue later than anticipated, load-in was marred with technological difficulties and space constraints, sound check didn’t seem very promising, and they were all tired before the show even started. Stiles kept popping strings, Isaac's amp went down for half a song, and they had to hold a few times because kids kept getting hurt at the barricade. Oh, and Scott still wasn’t talking to Stiles and no one would tell him why. 

Stiles does what he has to help strike his guitars immediately after and storms off to the bus with a pounding headache. 

Twenty-six down, twelve to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohio is for Lovers is a Hawthorne Heights song. (I'm trying really hard not to make fun of the song in these notes but c'mon...)
> 
> Rock Show is a Blink-182 song.
> 
> I'm trying out this whole writing ahead thing, and that's why this chapter took awhile to get up. All my lovins to you! Thanks, guys. <3
> 
> PS If you ever feel like I need to be tagging something, please let me know. I'm just flying by the seat of my pants sometimes and don't think of those sorts of things.


	6. Chicago is So Two Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks. >:3

August 12th.  
Chicago

Allison returned, Europe was finalized, the club tour was booked, St. Louis happened, things were in motion. 

Scott was talking to Stiles again, but the tension generated in those strange couple of days hadn’t quite worked itself out. Everyone was feeling even more tired than usual, but Stiles had never felt so reclusive in his life. Allison had not been pleased with the morale she returned to, needless to say.

And they had this day off in Chicago. Stiles had just wanted to sleep away his day off, but Allison seemed hell-bent on getting them all out of their weird funk. So now Stiles is looking at his deformed reflection in the Cloud Gate while the others do the same. 

Stiles leans forward slightly, squinting at what he can make out of the stubble on his jaw and the bags under his eyes. “I’m going back to the hotel,” he says with finality and walks away, putting on his sun glasses as he goes.

“You don’t want to go to the Art Institute?” Allison asks, jogging to catch up with him.

“No.”

“But you love it, you always do the Ferris Bueller thing—“

“I’m going back to the hotel.”

She mutters something vaguely negative before she retreats. 

Once back in the hotel room, Stiles hangs the Do Not Disturb door hanger and heads to bed. When his phone starts to ring he’s tempted to just turn the thing off, but the caller ID stops him.

“Paige?” he asks upon answering.

“Hey, stranger,” she says, her trademark playful smirk evident in her voice. “I heard you were in town.”

**

December 23rd, 2010.  
Beacon Hills

Derek was sitting on Stiles’ bed with a guitar in his lap. Stiles spun in his chair while reciting the same lyric over and over again.

“We can scrap it,” Derek said shyly.

“No, sir.”

“No really, it’s not great.”

“It’s good, I don’t want to scrap it.”

Derek sighed in frustration before strumming his way through an ugly jumble of chords. He stood and set Stiles’ guitar on the bed all while muttering an impressive string of curses. “Just scrap it,” he said to cap it off. “I officially hate it.”

“You’re so difficult, you know that?”

Derek paused in his anxious pacing long enough to give Stiles a decently scary glare before he snatched his coat from the back of Stiles’ door. “I’m going home.”

Stiles scrambled to get out of his chair, nearly tipping it over in the process. “No, no, no. No leaving until this is done. Lydia already thinks we just waste her time and she’s totally right, okay? So just calm your jets.”

Stiles didn’t want him to go home, not yet. He had been really _getting there_ lately and Stiles hated when he left.

“Fuck Lydia, if her time is so precious she can quit. Hey, maybe I’ll quit. Maybe we should all quit—“

Stiles backed him up against the door and tried to tower over him. “Hale, the only thing you’re going to quit is whining,” Stiles said, voice low and hopefully seductive. “You think I’d let you leave this band? We have our first gig coming up. I need you.”

“It’s an open mic night.”

“A gig is a gig, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe,” he said, voice flat. But if he thinks Stiles hadn’t noticed that his eyes kept slipping to Stiles’ lips, he’s wrong.

“I’ll call you what I want.” 

Derek smirked a little. “Oh will you?”

“I will. I own you, don’t you know that?” Stiles rested one hand against the piece of door over Derek’s shoulder. He moved his face even closer, could feel Derek’s breath on his cheek, could feel the heat coming off of him… “I’m very territorial.”

“Hm, I’ve noticed.” 

He’s flirting back, he’s calmed down, now Stiles just had to get him back on that bed and under that guitar.

“But I really do have to go. Family in town. And I’m uh… meeting Paige for coffee.” 

“Paige?”

“That girl in chemistry. I told you about her…”

“Cello girl, right. You’re getting coffee with _her_?”

Derek rolled his eyes and brought his hand up to Stiles’ chest.

“Yes. I have to go, I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, he used the hand resting on Stiles’ chest to push him away and slipped out the door.

**

August 13th.  
Chicago

“Paige is coming tonight, by the way. With her boyfriend, I guess. Or some guy, I don’t know.”

Scott lets out a slow whistle, eyebrows raised. Stiles smiles at his reaction, comforted that Scott knows the implications of that and is feeling friendly enough to engage. Scott smiles back before heading back to the table catering has set up.

They’d gone to high school with Paige but hadn’t become friends with her until she started dating Derek. As his first non-blonde, non-cheerleader girlfriend, she was an important player in the reinvention of Derek Hale. And she’d totally broken his heart when she broke up with him to go study music at DePaul while he pursued the band, even though she probably would have stayed with him if Derek hadn’t been cheating on her… which of course made her an important player in the evolution and destruction of Stiles too. Even still, Stiles likes her. He understands her and she understands him. 

She arrives in time for sound check, boyfriend in tow. He's tall and blonde and has that whole corn-fed Midwestern thing going on. They catch up with her backstage before the show starts and stand with her in the wings while Royales is on. She's newly graduated, she's planning on staying in Chicago for now, her family is doing just fine, her boyfriend is an engineering grad student, wow Erica sure is talented, etc. She's so damn normal and happy. Stiles knows she made the right choice. She can hang with any rock band, but she's a good girl at heart. Derek was no good for her. This boyfriend is a nice guy, the kind of guy she should be dating. 

**

“Do you still talk to him?” Paige asks, slurring a little. She swirls the drink in her hand around a few times, staring into its amber depths. “Be honest.”

He looks up to locate her boyfriend waiting at the bar, knowing the many directions this conversation could go. “Not since he quit.” 

He loves when he doesn’t have to give the same, crowd-pleasing answers.

“Wow.”

“You?”

“Nope. Not since he appeared on my doorstep on Thanksgiving.”

Stiles was there. “What’d you say to him? He never told me.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I asked him if he was actually in love with me or afraid of being in love with you.”

Stiles doesn’t want to hear any of this anymore. “What’d he say?” But he's a bit of a masochist.

“He didn’t say anything, that was the problem. It should have been an easy question to answer.”

“But you’re better off without him, right?”

She smiles her pretty little smile. “He was great, but I never regretted breaking up with him. I never even hated him.” She takes a sip before adding, “Never hated you, either.”

“And I never hated you.”

“Oh, good.” A pause. “So are you and Lydia a thing?”

“God, no. That was a very brief high school thing and that case has never been reopened.”

“So is she just possessive in general?”

Paige lifts her chin to gesture over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles turns and catches Lydia’s death glare. He waves at her with a grin. The deepening ire of her answering facial expression tells him exactly what the glare is about.

Chicago stop on the Gladiator Summer Tour, 2015. Paige had come out to that show, Stiles remembers, and they’d gone out afterward. She’d asked about Derek, about his departure, asked how Stiles was, asked how that was working out… and then Stiles doesn’t remember much. Too much to drink, a few painkillers mixed in. And then he remembers that she had floral print sheets and a scarlet duvet and he can almost remember how her hair looked spread across the pillow case, how her mouth fell open, how she moaned with him inside of her. He remembers it, but doesn’t remember the real motive behind it.

“That glare is meant for me, not for you. I promise.”

Lydia had called it a dick move. Lydia had told him he was disgusting. That fucking Derek’s ex wouldn’t change a thing. By then, they all knew that Stiles was using. They could all sense his downward spiral. And they were not pleased. Lydia yelled at him until she was crying angrily and Allison pulled her away to talk her down somewhere. Stiles had been too far gone at that point in the tour to care, but he remembers it. In retrospect, she was right. 

Lydia didn’t know why Paige and Derek had broken up, just that they did. She had thought the whole romance between Stiles and Derek was a post-Paige thing. She was wrong. It was a slow-burn masterpiece before and during Paige, and after Paige it was a perfect storm. 

Paige’s boyfriend rejoins them, another round in hand. Jonathan? Jason? Joe? hands Stiles a beer and slips back into the previous conversation with ease. He’s a good guy Paige deserves a good guy. When he looks at her, her face is lit up as she looks right on back. Stiles can still see why Derek liked her as clear as when he very specifically detailed it to him back in high school. Chocolate brown hair, open face, sweet smile… And he can remember all the reasons why they didn’t work out. God, he remembers all of it. She was such a nice girl. He remembers the look on her face when she caught them. He remembers the fight that ensued…

Stiles thinks he remembers too much these days. When he picks up his beer, his hand is shaking.

**

November 22nd, 2011.  
Chicago

There was a girl strumming a guitar not too far away from where Stiles stood with a cigarette burnt to the filter dangling from his lips. He could almost recognize the tune. His hands were shaking. He could almost hear the words to the song, a suggestion tucked under his tongue. His breath mingled with smoke in a fog that rose above his head. Her voice was sweet and rough.

"You ready to go?" Derek asked, sliding into his field of vision and blocking the girl from his view. Something hadn’t panned out. Stiles wanted to see Derek smile.

"I am the one who haunts your dreams of mountains sunk below the sea," Stiles half sang.

Derek reached forward and pulled the filter away from Stiles' lips and flicked it aside. "Huh?"

"I spoke the words but never gave a thought to what they all could mean. It's Brand New. She's playing Brand New." Stiles gestured toward the girl behind Derek. He shot a glance over his shoulder and looked back at Stiles, face blank.

"Right. Let's get out of here."

"I'm sorry but we can't do this band together if you don't know Brand New, they're geniuses and your image will be forever ruined if you’ve never brooded to this album, alright?"

"I need you like water in my lungs," Derek responded, his timing with the dying notes of the guitar verging on impeccable. "Let's go."

"Phew, good. You had me scared there."

Derek rolled his eyes and headed to the rented car, knowing Stiles would follow.

"Well, did you find her?" Stiles asked as he trailed him.

"Yeah."

"What'd she say?"

Derek was silent as he unlocked the car and slid in. Stiles paused before opening his door, holding his breath to listen for the now distant guitar. Stiles wondered why she was out there at all. It was easier than speculating on whatever had gone on in that apartment building. The street was nearly empty but the building was teeming with life and celebration. The air was a sharp cold, decorated with the scent of looming rain. Snow, maybe. Stiles' bones themselves clattered from the chill. Yet she played on. Unknowing and uncaring of potential audiences, alone with her guitar on Thanksgiving night in a big city. 

Once in the car, Stiles restated his question.

"She said no."

"No? That's it? No explanation?"

"She just said no."

"So what now?" Stiles tried to mask the hope in his voice with friendly concern.

For a couple beats Derek was completely still with his hand frozen on the keys in the ignition. And then he turned the key, the car came alive with whirs and dings and Stiles could hardly hear his half whispered answer: "Nothing."

**

August 14th.  
En route to Milwaukee

Stiles had been very rudely awakened when he almost missed bus call. He threw his things together, put on some cleanish clothes and hadn’t delayed anyone that much. It’s not until he’s shivering in his hoodie and squinting from behind his sunglasses in the front lounge that he realizes just how hungover he is.

Everything hurts.

“Is there a god damn reason we’re leaving for Milwaukee this early?” Stiles grumbles to no one in particular.

“Well hopefully Your Highness’s hangover is cleared up enough to play a fucking show tonight, those are the hopes and dreams I’m coming into this with,” Allison snaps at him on her way through to the bunks.

Stiles rolls his eyes for his own bespectacled satisfaction and slumps further into his seat. He swipes his thumb across the screen of his phone, taps out his security code and is met with a picture of the Beacon Hills Preserve, posted by username “ThisIsTheRealDerekHale.” He’d been looking at Derek’s Instagram profile last night, apparently. As a slave to his era, Stiles had unfollowed Derek on every social networking platform shortly after he left. That’d stirred the fans up a little, but it was really for the best but drunk Stiles was not above looking him up. Too listless to navigate away and close the app, Stiles kept scrolling. He wondered what he’d see of Derek’s trip to New York…

A picture posted eleven days ago shows Derek smiling, his arm thrown around someone. Not just any someone, either. The caption reads: “Quality New York hang with @jax_whittemore.”

Stiles balks. “Good to see you, brother,” Jackson commented. Stiles can’t help but scroll through the rest of the many, many comments (most of which are fangirls pleading Derek to go like their photos or professing their love for him or telling him to go back to Smokes).

“It was good seeing you <3,” posted by DutchMouse, Lydia’s little-known private account.

Stiles looks up from his phone slowly and turns his head toward where his traitorous bandmate is sipping a latte and reading a newspaper.

“What the fuck is this?” Stiles asks her, holding his phone up.

“A phone,” she answers after a brief glance.

“No. No, Lydia, why the fuck is this picture of our fucking front of house guy with Derek even a thing?”

When she looks up again, her eyes have gone wide. “I don’t… know what you mean…? You mean Jackson? I don’t know, the roadies do their own thing…”

“And apparently you saw him too? You saw him when we were in New York?”

“I mean it was just a sort of accidental, random happenstance sort of thing—“

Stiles stands up and stomps to the back lounge, Lydia on his heels as she pleads for him to just calm down. Allison pokes her head out of her bunk as they pass.

“Who else was there?” Stiles demands of Scott, Isaac and Boyd. 

“Was where?” Isaac asks.

Stiles shows them the picture. “Because Jackson was there, at least, and so was Lydia. Was everyone there?”

Scott looks guilty. Isaac looks like he doesn’t know what to say. 

And Boyd, well… Boyd doesn’t shy away from conflict, that’s why he has the job he does. “We went out and met him, yeah. So what?”

“And you all… you all kept that from me?”

“Listen up,” Boyd says, standing. “I know you think this is the Stiles Stilinski Traveling Circus, but we are all professionals here and would still be professionals without you. We don’t have to report our free time to you.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at, what I’m getting at is that my best friends – and I don’t mean you, Boyd – went out for a night on the fucking town with him and I find out on Instagram?”

“What are you even doing on his Instagram?” Lydia asked.

“This is getting real high school real fast, so if you don’t mind me,” Boyd mutters as he gathers his things. He makes sure to bump Stiles’ shoulder with unnecessary force as he passes on his way out.

Silence. Stiles’ is nearly shaking with unrealized and irrational rage. 

“Listen, dude, I know you’re upset but—“ Scott begins to say.

“I’d expect it from them, but you? Really?”

“What exactly are you expecting from us here?” Isaac asks, sounding more irritated than Stiles had anticipated.

“Was I talking to you, Isaac? Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” Stiles spits at him.

When Isaac stands, Stiles remembers how tall he is. “I’ll fucking speak when I want to, you hear me?” he growls as he steps closer to him.

“BOYS, knock it off,” Allison commands, stepping between them. “What the hell is this about?”

Stiles pushes past her to rear on Scott. “What was the point of keeping this from me?” 

“This whole thing right here was the point, Stiles.”

“Yeah well, fuck you.”

The look of hurt on Scott’s face only lasts a few seconds before they’re engaging in a full out verbal war. Stiles calls Scott a back-stabbing liar son-of-a-bitch, honest-to-god piece of shit. Scott calls him a paranoid, self-centered, drama queen. Somewhere in the fray, Allison is begging them to quit fighting.

“God, it’s almost like you’re using again,” Scott yells, and all sound stops.

Stiles gapes at him.

“Are you? Are you using again? Because the last time you got in my face like a jealous girlfriend was about a week before you landed yourself in rehab.”

“Are you?” Lydia parrots.

“N-no, guys, no I’m not,” Stiles stammers.

“So is this just the Stiles we have to put up with now?” he asks. “This is the shiny new post-treatment Stiles?”

“Guys, c’mon, stop,” Allison pleads.

“You’re going to be a little bitch for the rest of tour, aren’t you? Trying to tell us who we’re allowed to talk to and hibernating in your bunk until you feel like gracing us with your shitty mood?”

“Guys,” Allison tries again.

“Yeah, that’s exactly who you’re stuck with,” Stiles says and turns to go.

“After Europe, I want a fucking break,” Scott declares unwaveringly. “From this band and from you.”

When Stiles looks back at him, he sees the stubborn determination and naked honesty he’s used to from Scott mixed in with contempt he’s never seen before.

“Fine.” When he slides the door closed behind him, his hands are shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chicago is So Two Years Ago is a Fall Out Boy song.
> 
> After this chapter, we're fast approaching the scene in the intro! :D
> 
> As always, thanks & <3s!


	7. Hometown Glory

August 22nd.  
Salt Lake City

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Salt Lake City. Local time is 10:18 in the morning. The temperature is a cool 72, and the high this afternoon will be 90.”

Stiles wakes up slowly throughout the announcement. He pulls an ear bud out and slides the window shade open to take in the approaching cruddy old tarmac of yet another American city.

He used to be afraid of flying, actually. After the first flight to Tokyo, his fear had evolved into an incredible knack for falling asleep instantly the second the landing gear is safely tucked away.

He turns on his cell phone the second he can and reads through his messages as he makes his way off the plane. The captain tips his hat to him and thanks him by name as he disembarks. Before take-off, Stiles had posed for a picture with him and signed some things for his daughters.

He rereads the text Allison sent him this morning before his flight. “Your driver should be there when you land. His sign will say Sam Spiegel. I emailed you some restaurants close to the venue if you’re hungry. Have a nice flight.”

The rest of the band was probably about two hours away. They left Denver in the wee hours while Stiles slept. In his imagination, they were laughing it up and playing video games or jamming or whatever. In his mind, they probably loved not having him around. But truth was, things weren’t great between any of them right now. Stiles was only a little bit to blame for all of that. He has to remind himself that they all love each other like family and that families do this. Not that he knows from experience—the Sheriff was a gruff but non-aggressive man. Anyway, his little outburst and the ensuing fight stirred up a lot of shit. Stiles is paying for his own flights out of pocket just so he doesn’t have to bathe in negativity for some of the longer drives across the country.

It’s lonely, but productive.

Thirty-three down, five to go.

And then a club tour and then Europe and then hiatus. Hiatus, wow. It feels like a dangerous word. It feels like a “we were never on hiatus, we just didn’t want to say we quit” admission in a retrospective article ten years down the line. And if that’s the case, well… Stiles has been writing a lot lately. He’s not above a “side project.” Maybe.

**

“I need more monitor,” Stiles says into the mic, eyes trained on Jackson in his little sound empire off in the distance.

He hears Scott’s guitar get louder in his ear piece. He gives Jackson a thumbs-up and kneels down to adjust his effects pedals. They fiddle with their instruments and various accessories without saying a word to each other. 

“One, two, three, sibilants, sibilants, consonants…” Stiles announces. He even throws in a few “check, check, check”s to irritate Jackson. Scott usually joins in on his own mic, but hasn’t lately. 

“Shut up, Stiles. Ready for you, Scott,” Jackson cuts in over the god mic. 

Scott checks his mic, Jackson moves on to Isaac, Lydia doesn’t have a mic of her own but she helps check the emergency mic that lays in wait on stage left, and then they play a few parts of a few different songs and then they file off stage to go sit in the green room in utter silence. Stiles fucking hates it.

He toys around with his phone for a little before the silence becomes overwhelming. He almost tries to start a conversation with the room at large, but the words get caught in his throat. He spots his abandoned hoodie on a vacant chair and goes to it to get his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. One cigarette left. That’ll have to do.

He heads outside, ignoring Boyd’s leery gaze.

“—I understand, _dad_ , but I can’t really force their hands here… “ he hears as he rounds the corner to escape the blazing sunlight. Allison’s trademark blazer is draped over the railing of the loading dock while she paces several feet away. 

“It has to be up to them…. What’s not to get about this? Listen, I’m trying here. They’re tired, they’ve been working their asses off on this tour and now none of them are on speaking terms and it’s tough, okay?... Please, spare me the anecdotes. Every band is different, you can’t just expect the same thing to work with all of them…. Oh, well I’d rather preserve the longevity of my act than force a few more tours out of them before they burn out…”

“Or quit in a fit of fiery rage,” Stiles drawls from his perch next to her blazer.

Allison whips around and he sees nothing but stress written across her face.

“Listen, I’m not even going to try to handle this until Europe is in the bag. There’s no point. They can rest on it for now, the ball is in their court. End of conversation,” she continues, face softening as she watches Stiles light up. “I’m getting you some nicotine patches,” she says to him, angling the phone away from her face. She listens to her father for a few beats before sighing out a quick goodbye.

After she hangs up she extends a hand out to Stiles. He passes her his lit cigarette, hoping she won’t throw it on the floor.

After taking an unprecedented drag, she tilts her head up and blows the smoke out. “You sounded good earlier,” she tells him before taking another and handing it back.

“Thanks. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Your contract with the label is up, you guys have been refusing to talk business since Philly. No big.”

“Up as in we’re out?”

“Up as in they want to negotiate another contract.”

“Cool, right?”

“You have other options. Better options. Options with more freedom.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah.”

“But?”

“But nothing, really.”

“C’mon, Al.”

“But you guys are headed for a blow out, aren’t you?”

Stiles shrugs.

“None of you are talking.”

“It’s all temporary,” he says dismissively. 

“I’ve never seen you guys fight like this.”

“We’re fighting?”

“Well, you aren’t talking to them—“

“I’m saving them from my shitty attitude. I’m trying to be generous.” The bite he tries to tone down isn’t lost on her.

“Whatever. Well, while you’ve been napping in first class and fucking around in every city, they’ve been either screaming at each other or freezing each other out.”

“Over what?”

“Everything. I think today’s particular issue of contention is that Scott leaves all his things all over the back lounge. Isaac stood up for him when Lydia was complaining about it, so then Lydia went after him for always being on Scott’s side and then I lost track of the argument.”

“Scott is a slob, though.”

“Not the point.”

“Right, sorry.”

“What happened to my happy family band?” she sighs, leaning heavily against the wall.

Stiles frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault… well, it’s not _just_ your fault.” The last bit is delivered with a smile so Stiles lets it slide.

“After Europe, Lyds is flying off to Hawaii, I’m going to hang out with my dad, Scott is going to surf every day and smoke a lot of weed and Isaac is going to do whatever it is he does back home. We’ll get bored of it, we’ll miss each other and everything is going to be fine.”

“I don’t think this is something you can just leave to fate.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes things need to be talked about.”

“Hey, I’m over it. I’m just keeping my distance. I don’t need to talk about it.”

“You might not need to, but they do.”

“You realize how small and stupid that whole fight was?”

“It’s not as small as you think.”

“Maybe not,” he says thoughtfully. He knows deep down that she’s right. But he also knows something else. “Scott has been my best friend longer than I can even really remember. He was there when my mom died, he was there when I came out, he was the first person to visit me in rehab and we might not be great right now, but I’m all in with that kid until death. And Lydia was, is and always will be the girl of my dreams. She’s been around for almost as much as Scott has but had the additional honor of taking my virginity.” 

“What about Isaac?” she asks after a pause.

“Isaac is great,” he says lightly. “Great musician, great friend.”

She huffs a wry little laugh and shakes her head as though he’s missing a point.

“We’re going to be fine, Al.”

She snatches the cigarette hanging from Stiles’ mouth with surprising speed and inhales until she hits filter. 

“Hey, that’s my last—“

“You shouldn’t smoke anyway,” she says on the exhale. She flashes him a beautiful smile as she snatches her blazer off the railing and turns on her heel.

“Neither should you!” he calls after her as she heads off to the bus.

**

August 24th.  
Beacon Hills.

The band loves hometown shows so much that they’re written into their contract. At first, they had a lot of push-back regarding resources and time and all that, but then the powers-that-be realized how cheap it was. No venue in town could truly afford to put them up at their standard costs, but they always cut a steep deal with the community college’s decently sized sports arena. They always sold out at home, they never had to pay for hotels and everyone had a good time. It was the easiest detour in the world.

But Stiles wasn’t sure how great tonight was going to go. They were speaking again, sort of. Tersely and only with extraordinary need. The night before, they’d had a stunted conversation about meeting a few friends at Hank’s Cafe for lunch before sound check.

So there they sit – Stiles next to Scott, Lydia across the table – in total awkward silence. Stiles wants to scream, shake the rusty road signs and license plates right off the walls. He wants to tear the BHHS Cyclones lacrosse banner off the wall and sing the damn fight song. Wants to get high fives from the dude wearing the Cyclones football jacket and the lady he vaguely recognizes as the librarian and the kid serving coffee. Anything to make their homecoming seem like something to be excited about. So he cracks and turns to Scott.

“Is your mom off work tonight?” he asks to fill the silence.

Scott looks up from his phone and toward him in surprise. “Uh, yeah she is. How about your dad?”

“Yeah, he’s coming.”

“After party with the Sheriff!” Scott exclaims, face splitting into his radiant grin.

“And a nurse on hand? Literally nothing could go wrong,” Stiles adds, grinning too.

“It’s nice to be back here,” Scott confesses after a pause spent looking around at the kitschy mishmash of retro memorabilia plastered to the walls. “Right, Lydia?”

“This place is a dump.” Her soft smile says otherwise.

“Keep your unholy mouth shut!” Scott snaps.

“Just because a waitress dropped your coffee on you that _one_ time in sophomore year doesn’t mean this place is a dump,” Stiles argues.

“Oh really? My mother and her ruined vintage Hermes scarf would like to disagree with you.”

“Wasn’t Jackie Stevens our waitress?” Scott retorts. “Because I seem to remember you calling her an ugly slut the day before.”

“She could have scarred me for life!”

“In Lydia’s defense, Jackie Stevens is soooort of a terrible person,” someone says from the end of their table. 

Stiles has hardly registered Danny’s sudden appearance when Lydia squeals and launches herself out of the booth to wrap around him. 

“Aw, good to see you guys too,” he says with a laugh as they all converge on him. “Where’s Jackson?”

“Setting up. He said he’ll be on his way soon,” Stiles answers.

“And Greenberg?”

“Uuuugh, enough about Greenberg,” Lydia groans. 

They pile back into the booth and Stiles already feels better.

“How’s tour going?” Danny asks.

“It’s almost over, thank god,” Lydia answers. Scott stifles a laugh. “What? Let’s be honest, guys.”

“Yeaaah, we’re glad to be in the home stretch,” Stiles agrees.

“You guys miss me that much?”

Other than their first tour and the current one, Danny had always been on the road with them. Once he had enough projects in his lighting portfolio and once Jackson had enough experience live mixing, they had become their go-to front of housers. Jackson may be an asshole who brazenly poses in Instagram pictures with former band members, but he is a talented guy. And Danny has the additional bonus of being a technological genius who can fix anything, including but not limited to broken AC on tour buses. 

“Considering you’re coming with us to Europe, no,” Stiles scoffs.

**

“Danny still talks to him, you know. They’re regular buddies. They even go to Giants games together,” Jackson taunts Stiles through his earpiece.

Stiles glares at him and can see his answering smirk even from his little booth in the middle of the arena floor. He can hear Danny and Greenberg laughing it up backstage. He makes a mental note to tell Jackson that he doesn’t care who Danny hangs out with, but he knows it’ll be a moot point by then. 

If he wasn’t so fucking good at his job, Stiles would insist they found another engineer. 

“Allison, Jackson is bothering the talent,” Stiles says into his mic. “Boyd? Anyone?” He sweeps his eyes across the arena floor and sees Allison and Boyd looking unimpressed not far from the booth.

“Shut up and play the hits, Stilinski,” Jackson commands over the god mic. 

Scott kicks into a familiar guitar line and starts singing an early, long retired and unrecorded Smokes for Harris song called “Jackson is a Loser Who Will Never Land Lydia Martin.”

Lydia laughs and starts to beat out what she can remember of the drum part. Isaac catches on and plays a bass line that fits, not that there ever was a real bass line anyway because Derek refused to devise one. Stiles starts to sing along halfway through the first verse. 

Jackson doesn’t recognize the song until the chorus (“Jackson is a loser who will never land Lydia Martin, yeah, his dick would fall limp before he could even get to startin’, etc.”) and when he does, he mutes the entire output from the stage.

Stiles looks over to Scott with a grin. Scott smiles back and steps over piles of cords to get closer to him. “We need to record that and put it up on YouTube or something,” he tells him.

“Done and done.”

**

“Beacon _good goddamn_ Hills, good evening!” Stiles yells into his mic over the crowd’s cheering. He’s already sweating after their energetic first song. They usually start with “Girl Worth Fighting For,” but they always start the hometown shows with their first ever single. 

“God, we love you,” Stiles says after basking in their enthusiasm for a minute. “Don’t we love them?” Stiles asks Scott, Isaac and Lydia.

“More than anything!” Scott professes, clutching his heart. Scott isn’t just the band’s sweetheart, he’s Beacon Hills’ golden boy. The audience goes nuts.

“Absolutely!” Lydia assures them over a drum roll. 

“Like a second family,” Isaac agrees. 

“It’s so nice to be here with all of you. It really is. We’ve been all over this big beautiful world, seen a lot of things, but there’s nothing like coming home.”

“Nothing like sleeping in our childhood bedrooms,” Scott adds.

“Nothing like avoiding old teachers,” Stiles continues. “Mr. Harris, if you’re here, we hope you’re having a good time.” A wave of laughter rolls through the audience.

“Nothing like Mama McCall’s hospitality,” Isaac says. 

“Nothing like Sheriff Stilinski’s beer selection,” Scott sighs.

“The man sure likes a good beer, let me tell you. Speaking of which! Our parents are here, let’s hear it for the people who made our existence possible!”

Stiles checks on his pedals while they cheer and then comes back to his mic. “Alright, let’s get this rock show on the road. I guess we have to play Girl, huh? It’s what the people want? Fair enough, let’s do it.”

Stiles hasn’t had this much fun on stage since Baltimore. The worries of the last couple of weeks feel so distant. He’s got Scott, Isaac and Lydia and the best crew in the business and everything is going to be fine. 

At the halfway point, they end a song on a gigantic note – screaming guitar, explosive drums – and a sudden black out and utter silence. Lydia leads them off stage, a bounce in her step. The people backstage clap them on their backs and shoulders as they pass. Stiles feels energy thrumming through him.

“You guys are fucking killing it,” Erica gushes.

He chugs a bottle of water and steadies his breath as he watches them wheel the piano out. When they’re given the clear to take the stage, he grabs Erica’s hand and they walk out together.

He’s nervous now. In second grade, Stiles’ piano teacher told him he didn’t have an ear for music. So he quit. In choir, the teacher told him he had a nice but weak voice. But he had wanted to be a powerhouse… In high school, Mr. Harris had told him that his band was stupid and that he was wasting his time on a useless hobby. And now, Smokes for Harris had proven all of them wrong. 

Stiles told Erica he wanted to blow them out of the water with their cover weeks in advance. They’ve worked on this for awhile. 

“You guys are crazy, the band is practically fainting with exhaustion,” Stiles tells the crowd when the lights come back up on the stage. “So we’re going to slow it down real nice and smooth for you fine people, give the band a chance to recuperate. So I’ve asked Erica to help me out. Did you love Royales?”

Cheering.

“God, right? Well I’ve borrowed their beautiful songstress for a bit.” She starts playing the opening notes of the piano part. Stiles is keeping track of the counts in his head. “This is Hometown Glory and this is for all of us who get told we’re not going to make it.”

**

The party rages on, loud music and the sound of hundreds of people having hundreds of conversations beat against the door. The Martin’s guest room is a rosy, plush little den of temporary decadence. A big floral duvet, sleek dark wood furniture, lights on a dimmer switch. Other than a few new paintings on the walls, nothing in this room has changed. Nothing here ever changes. God bless the suburbs.

Stiles is straddling Danny’s lap, hands on his neck as he kisses him deeply. Danny leans back against the bed, his arms supporting him as he languidly kisses back. Danny has always been so fucking casual and calm, so in control and intentional. Stiles used to himself insane trying to rile him up and make him break, but Danny never lost control. And somehow that was the appeal. 

“Hmm, you’re so needy,” Danny mumbles when Stiles slides his mouth away to kiss his jaw. 

“Missed you,” Stiles mumbles back, head clouded with lust and pricy scotch.

“We haven’t fucked in years,” Danny says, tilting his head up as Stiles starts to suck desperately at his neck. Stiles runs his hands down his chest and clutches his shirt.

“Missed you in general,” Stiles clarifies after a second. He lifts his head and examines Danny’s smug face. His hair is mussed just right, his pupils blown, his lips swollen and wet. “No more touring with other bands.”

“Tell that to the other bands,” Danny says with a satisfied smirk. He pushes back against the mattress (Stiles groans at the feeling of the rolling muscles under his hands) and grabs Stiles’ ass before falling flat against the mattress, bringing Stiles with him.

“What other bands?” Stiles teases, sliding his hands under Danny’s shirt. Danny shivers a little in response and brings his leg up in between Stiles’. 

A few liquid moments later, Stiles is shirtless and hard and his pants are unzipped and Danny is similarly attired and—

“Condom,” Stiles breathes against Danny’s lips.

Danny’s hand stops mid-way down the back of Stiles’ pants. “Fuck,” he says, head thumping back against the bed. Stiles smiles against Danny’s neck, trying to fight down a laugh.

“Fuck!” Danny curses again. Stiles does laugh this time. “Always,” Danny exclaims, pushing Stiles off of him. 

“Remember how—“

“Yes I do, thanks, no need to re-hash—“

“It took like… how many Lydia parties—“

“Shut up.”

“For you to remember to bring a fucking condom—“

“So I could charity fuck your sexual confusion away? Yeah.” And with that, Danny punches Stiles in the side. “Still can’t believe I slummed it for you,” he teases. 

“And now I’m slumming for you,” Stiles retorts, kicking at him.

They laugh for what would be considered a little too long by sobriety’s standards, kicking and punching at each other intermittently. And then Stiles remembers what Jackson said earlier.

“You still hang out with Derek, huh?” Stiles asks, trying to sound disinterested.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

“How is he?”

Danny looks over at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“I just… figured you’d pitch a fit or something.” 

Stiles shrugs as best as his horizontal position can allow. 

Danny tries to read Stiles’ expression but appears to come up empty. “He’s good.”

Stiles tries to imagine what that really means. Good. Not really good, at least. Not bad. Not great. Not horrible. A nice middle of the road state of being. “Good,” Stiles finally says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hometown Glory is an Adele song.
> 
> Hugs and kisses from me to you! Happy holidays! :)


	8. Fake Tales of San Francisco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've met with the introduction! :)

September 20th.  
Los Angeles

“And how was the rest of tour?” 

“Quick.”

Dr. Deaton looks over the top of his glasses at Stiles, pen hovering just above the notepad balanced on his knee. Apparently “quick” is not the sort of response he was looking for.

“It was um…” He tries to think of a good one word descriptor. That’s something he learned from Lydia when he was fresh out of rehab. She told him that if he was feeling too much or thinking too much to try to describe what he felt in one word. It made him stop and really think. It made him visualize his mind as a disorganized filing cabinet that needed some upkeep. It helped him sort through it all. “It was disappointing.”

Disappointing. Yes. Not in terms of ticket sales or crowd approval or logistics or payroll or anything. But still disappointing.

“And why is that?” Deaton asks.

Stiles listens to his pen scratching against the paper for awhile as he thinks. “I mean… no matter how good the hometown show went, it didn’t magically fix things. We spent a few days recovering, hanging out with our families and stuff, avoiding each other and then got back on the bus and I think we were all burnt out for those last two shows. Fresno went fine, the LA show was fine. There was an after party, we didn’t hang out with each other at it and then everyone went their own ways.”

“I see.”

The taxi had dropped Stiles off outside his house after the party and Stiles stood in the doorway taking it all in. He could hear crickets. He could hear a dog barking. He could hear a lazy late summer wind rustling the leaves. The house smelled so stale. It was exactly as he had left it before tour – clean, barren, fairly unlived in. Quiet. Quiet neighborhood on a sleepy little street in a sleepy corner of Silver Lake. When he bought the place two years ago, he had felt as though it was a good choice. He usually saw so little of it that he had no evidence otherwise. But now that he spent his mornings tucked in the upstairs window seat watching the fog burn off with the sunrise, his afternoons driving for no reason, his nights searching for something to make him feel significant…

“What have you been doing since the end of tour?”

“I’ve been writing songs and relaxing.”

Deaton smiles. “That’s the PR answer.”

Stiles laughs a little. “You’re right, but it so happens to be true.”

Deaton hmms in thought, flipping through his notes. “What do you find to be the most difficult part of being off tour?”

Being alone. “Being dormant.”

**

September 29th.  
Los Angeles, CA.

“I think it’d be best if you looked for a replacement bassist for Europe,” Isaac announces.

Lydia drops her drum sticks and their collision with the crash cymbal is the only sound in the tiny rehearsal space.

They leave for their ten day club tour in two days. They leave for Europe in eighteen days.

When no one offers him anything but astounded silence he clears his throat uncomfortably. “I just uh… I need some time… I realize this is late notice but uh… I’m sorry.”

Lydia looks shell-shocked, but Scott looks furious. Stiles feels… well… side-lined but numb. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Scott finally manages to utter. “Does Allison know? Does Boyd know?”

“Uh, no. I’ll be talking to them after this.”

Scott starts to yell, Lydia tries to moderate, Stiles takes off his guitar and slips outside, letting the soundproof door’s whoosh of air speak for him. 

He leans heavily against the wall and closes his eyes against the ugly orange carpet in the hallway, tries to block out the maroon wallpaper, tries to ask himself why they thought this spot was so charming when they first got to LA instead of so many other questions. His legs feel weak so he slides down the wall. 

He feels the familiar pull of panic swirling in him. His hands are shaking and he can hear the phantom music of pills rattling in a bottle.

**

October 2nd.  
San Francisco

Stiles has known since early adolescence that anything he could ever want could be easily obtained in San Francisco. That pretty little city of lights and bridges and hills and fog. And drug dealers and rampant sexual depravity. God save San Francisco. 

Stiles is pretty sure the show went well despite how badly his nerves churned and churned in his stomach. He had to leave the stage to throw up in the instrumental break in the song he forgot the words to on the second night in LA. ‘Had to Run’? No, something off of Gladiator. Smaller, more intimate crowds in smaller, more intimate spaces… more difficult than Madison Square Garden, as it turns out. It hadn’t always been that way, but now… now the body heat and the lights and the electricity and the confinement… it all went straight to his stomach. His hands shake so damn much more than they used to, Stiles is pretty sure.

He leans against the brick wall outside whatever bar he has found himself at and he waits. He knows a guy who is always just a text message away. 

Dr. Deaton would be so disappointed. Allison too.

It’s not like he’s decided to _take_ them yet. He just wants the option. He lights a cigarette to soothe his anxiety and feels an ersatz calm take over him, starting in his lungs and spreading outward. He hears a door swing open, the sounds of the crowded bar pouring out into the street, and then he watches as an arguing couple stumbles their way toward the BART station nearby. Stiles remembers what that was like. They’ll probably get home, sleep it off and fuck in the morning. Yeah, Stiles remembers that well.

**

October 3rd.  
Beacon Hills

Stiles showed up on the doorstep of his childhood home early in the morning much to the surprise of the Sheriff.

“Didn’t think you’d blow through here on your way north,” he says after a bracing hug. He ushers him in to the kitchen and pours him a cup of coffee before Stiles can even say anything.

“Shows what you know, dad,” Stiles retorts warmly.

“Where’s your band of misfits?”

“San Francisco. We’re flying out tomorrow morning.”

“No bus?”

“No bus.”

“What brings you home so soon?”

“I’ve seen enough of San Francisco, don’t you think?” Stiles asks. The Sheriff shrugs.

“I should think you’ve seen enough of here too, but whatever. Well, I’m working today so—“

“Can I ride along with you?”

He looks at him with suspicion before consenting.

Stiles just wants to feel like he used to. Just for a day. He wants to sit in a squad car with a bucket of curly fries between them. He wants to skip class with Scott. He wants to write songs up in his bedroom. He wants to convince that Hale kid to come sit with them at lunch because for some reason, he seems to have fallen from the jockistocracy’s grace. He wants to fantasize about the easy and exciting life of a rockstar while practicing in the Martins’ garage.

**

“You excited for Europe?” the Sheriff asks. 

Stiles grunts noncommittally.

“Ah, feeling jaded?”

Stiles has his sights trained on a dubious looking youth stationed outside the convenience store. In his imagination, the kid’s about to rob the place and Sheriff Stilinski and Deputy Stilinski are prepared to act. The kid thrusts his hands into his hoodie pockets and Stiles leans forward, eyes squinting. The kid extracts his car keys, gets in a beat up Honda Civic and drives away.

“Does he look like he’s speeding?” Stiles asks.

The Sheriff rolls his eyes. “What’s wrong, son?”

“He looked like he has a record.”

“So you’re not excited for Europe.”

Stiles slumps back against the seat and sighs dramatically. “Isaac quit the band.”

“Why?”

Stiles shrugs. “I didn’t bother to ask.”

“Way to be a leader, Stiles.”

“I’m not a leader. I’m not trying to be a leader. If you don’t want to be in this band, you don’t have to be in this band.”

“You’re upset though.”

“Yeah. Now I’m down a bassist heading into an international tour. Of course I’m upset.”

“And that boy is your friend.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you guys going to do?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay,” the Sheriff says slowly. He scratches at his stubble in thought and then attempts another topic. “Well, how’s Scott and his mystery woman?”

“What?”

“Melissa said he has some girl—“

“I haven’t talked to Scott since LA. I have no idea which new girl he thinks he’s fallen for this time.”

“Okay, okay, forget I mentioned it.”

“Already forgotten.”

The ensuing silence is eventually broken by his father’s mischievous chuckle.

“What?” Stiles asks, feeling wary.

“You know Derek Hale bought that place out on Cedar. By the preserve. Not too far from—“

“Dad, please.”

The Sheriff looks back at him without a single trace of remorse.

“I don’t know what happened between you but—“

“Dad, last night I bought enough Xanax to last me through Europe and right up until my band goes on what is looking to be a permanent hiatus.” 

It hurts him to say it. He hadn’t taken any. He’d gone back to his hotel feeling accomplished and then he wrestled his demons all night and rented a car, got on the road and came here without telling a soul. As long as he was back in time for the car to the airport, no one had to know.

Stiles listens to the police scanner’s idle crackle and basks in his father’s disappointment.

“You haven’t taken any though.”

“No, sir.”

“That’s good.”

“I guess.” 

The Sheriff reaches a hand out and grips Stiles’ shoulder. He looks down at his hands as he twists them in his lap. 

“As I was saying,” he continues.

“No, seriously, I don’t need to hear it.”

“That place out on Cedar.”

“By the preserve, I know.”

“You should go see him.”

“I’ll pass.”

“I’m only mentioning it because he doesn’t duck behind aisles in the grocery store anymore—“

“I have moved past this.”

“Well according to the last conversation I had with Red—”

Stiles groans and slouches in his seat. “You were drunk and talking shit with Lydia at the after party, weren’t you?”

“She can drink me under the table.”

“Me too,” Stiles sighs.

**

Sunglasses on, hood up, headphones on and the unlikelihood of a Stiles Stilinski spotting in Beacon Hills lets Stiles set up camp in a window seat at an attempt at a trendy cafe. Throughout his entire life, this place had been a bait and tackle shop. 

There’s a guy and a girl, high school aged, sitting at a table in Stiles’ line of vision. The girl keeps looking over at him. Stiles quirks a lopsided smile at her and she flushes a brilliant red before looking away for good.

Garage Band is open on his computer, a few different tracks loaded but untouched. He’d tried to record some stuff on his own before they left LA. Tried to see if he could do this alone. He had a dummy drum track and a really basic bass line and okay guitar and decent lyrics, he supposed, but there was nothing he could do to make it sound like anything but amateur. 

The girl working the cash register looks like Cora. Isn’t Cora, of course. Cora’s at school on the east coast. Stiles half expects to run into the rest of the local Hales at every turn. They wouldn’t be fooled by his half-assed disguise. Laura would rip the headphones right off his head and either punch him or pull him into a rib-crushing hug. Talia would be cordial but distant, crackling with authority and matriarchy as always. She never really liked Stiles.

But over a couple glasses of wine at Thanksgiving one year, she did admit to liking how Derek smiled when Stiles was around.

His chest constricts at the thought. 

Fuck.

It’s getting late, Stiles reasons with himself. He should get a good night’s sleep in the home he grew up in and he should just go flush the pills in his overnight bag down the toilet and he should man up and finish his career as a musician with his head held high because everyone in the world who knows anything about anything knows that Stiles… well, Stiles can’t do anything alone. Can’t pay his bills without Allison reminding him. Can’t write music without help. Can’t even have a proper meltdown without running home to the Sheriff. And he hadn’t been able to get out of bed every day after his mother died without Scott. Couldn’t have come out to his father without Lydia. Couldn’t do anything without his band. Couldn’t get on a stage without Derek whispering things in his ear. Couldn’t fall asleep in foreign beds without Derek. Couldn’t stop crying for days after Derek left, not until they needed him. Couldn’t keep his hands from shaking, can’t keep his hands from shaking, will never keep his hands from shaking…

Without Derek. Or closure. Derek or closure. 

Maybe the first step to accepting Smokes for Harris’ demise is accepting Derek’s departure from his life. Closure begets closure begets… some nebulous future.

Cedar, huh? 

**

Stiles smokes in utter silence on Derek Hale’s porch, halfway in between ringing the doorbell and fleeing. The windows at the front of the house are dark, but there’s a faint glow that signifies someone might be home. Maybe. Or he might be out. If he knocks and Derek doesn’t answer, at least he tried. Right? Right.

Stiles yanks at the collar of his jacket, trying to protect his neck from the cold. His heart is already hammering in his chest, his hands are clammy. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the off-chance that no one hears him… or is home at all.

For a second, the house remains silent. When he hears heavy footsteps treading his way on the other side of the door, Stiles just smokes faster in an attempt to keep his feet planted.

Maybe he’ll peek outside and see Stiles standing here and he’ll decide to pretend he isn’t home. God, please. Stiles will totally let him get away with it. He will…

The door swings open without hesitation just as Stiles sucks in a little too much smoke. His chest aches and his throat burns but he is determined to be… cool. 

Derek’s face smoothly transitions from curious and neighborly to horrified to purposefully blank and Stiles is speechless.

Absolutely tongue-tied. Mute. Verging on brain-dead. 

He keeps smoking, trying to steady his heart rate before it gets so thunderous that Derek can hear it. And if Derek is panicking too, he surely isn’t showing any signs of it.

Speak, Stiles. Speak.

“You gonna let me in or what?” he finally croaks. 

Derek’s face is unreadable. “Put out the cigarette and I’ll consider it,” he drawls. 

In the romantic dramedy version of this, Stiles tosses his cigarette aside and pulls Derek into the passionate kiss the audience has been waiting for since the second act. Derek pulls him inside without breaking it, barely remembers to close the door. Credits roll. (He’s almost surprised that his instincts still skew that way.)

He drops his cigarette and snuffs it out under his heel. 

“How about now?”

**

With his hand wrapped around a beer bottle, it’s easy to stop the shaking. He has his other hand balled up and pressed against the outside of his thigh under the table. 

Derek looks… beautiful. Wow. Their eyes are locked, two years or more of unsaid things remaining unsaid in the stark silence of his kitchen, and Stiles can’t even begin to consider looking away. When he hears the word “hazel,” the only thing that comes to mind is Derek. From this distance, they look like a murky pond but he knows that up close they’re more detailed than that. Marbled. Green and brown and whatever else wrapped around each other. 

So far, Stiles word-vomited a sexual question at Derek, puffed up his chest good and proper, admitted to will-less desperation, tried to apologize, and backed themselves into uncomfortable thoughts about the past of their band. Great. But at least Derek hadn’t thrown him out quite yet.

Stiles clears his throat to break the silence. “I saw you,” he admits. His bravado is officially dead.

“In New York?” Derek asks.

“Yeah. I was afraid that I would and then I didn’t until we were leaving for Jersey. Saw you come out of a restaurant.”

Derek’s mouth screws up in wry amusement. “Funny.”

Stiles smiles and breaks eye contact to examine the wood grain in the table. “Yeah.”

“I saw you too.”

He looks back up, the question caught in his throat.

“I didn’t, uh, make it to the show. Lydia invited me but I had a thing…”

“Lydia invited you?”

“Yeah.”

“So when did you see me then?”

“You were getting out of a car at the Chelsea.”

Stiles can’t even begin to comprehend the true size of New York, and yet it nearly brought them together. Stiles chews the inside of his cheek to keep from spouting some half-baked philosophical garbage about fate and all that bullshit. That’s not what this is. That’s not what this is at all. 

Derek taps a lazy rhythm against the table but Stiles knows he’s just as nervous as he is. He can tell. There’s a tightness in the way his jaw is set, the muscles in his upper arms are taut, his eyebrow is raised just so…

The worn fabric of his white undershirt gathers in soft folds at his small waist, stretches across his broad chest and shoulders. His hair is all out of place and his face all stubbly. Stiles feels wounded. This was how he had always liked him best.

“So, law school, huh? Hastings?”

Derek nods. 

“How’s that?”

Derek shrugs.

“Right on.”

Stiles knows the man can handle the Socratic method, but he doesn’t think he should have to. He remembers lacrosse Derek – muscle, machismo, pure athletic sex appeal. Structure, discipline, rules. They’d been in the same geometry class before they were friends and Derek had been a preternaturally good student. He had the girls, the grades, the popularity, everything high school kids are supposed to want but Stiles always thought he seemed so miserable. Stiles had his little group of friends, decent grades, the occasional person who was willing to fuck around with him, and more happiness than he knew what to do with. 

And then at the beginning of junior year, Derek’s father died. And he rejected all his friends and broke up with whichever girl he was with at the time and he started skipping classes. 

One day in this downward spiral, Stiles had been taking a little smoke break outside by the jeep when Derek stomped toward him. 

“Move.”

That was the first thing Derek had ever directly said to Stiles. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him and flicked his ashes onto Derek’s shoes. Derek tried to edge past him to get to the drivers’ side of his car. Stiles was unmoved. 

“Where you goin’, stud?” Stiles asked, pushing off from the jeep to lean against Derek’s little sports car instead.

“None of your business. Get the fuck off my car.”

Stiles blew smoke in his face, rolled his eyes and sauntered away. 

The next day at lunch, Stiles patted the seat next to him as His Surliness marched by and he actually sat down. And that’s how it all started. 

This ill-advised reunion is starting to verge on painfully uncomfortable. Stiles finishes his beer in one long gulp and sets it down.

“I should go.”

“Okay.”

Stiles clears his throat and stands. “It was um… good to see you.”

“Yeah.”

He’s halfway to the door when a very stupid thought bubbles forth and spews out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“We’re down a bassist for Europe.”

Derek stops dead a few steps from his front door. “Oooh no. No, no, no,” he stutters.

Stiles shrugs. “So if you know anyone, call me.”

Derek looks dumbfounded.

“You can just contact Allison or Lydia or whoever else in the crew you still associate with, or—“

“I have your number.”

“I’ve had three different numbers since the last one you knew—“

“Lydia gave me your most recent.”

And it’s Stiles’ turn to look dumbfounded. 

“How much do you talk to them?” Stiles asks, trying not to sound so hurt.

“Not a lot.”

“Enough to meet up in New York? Enough for Lydia to feel justified in giving you my number? How much is not a lot?” 

He looks distinctly uncomfortable. Stiles feeds off it. “I thought I was mad at them for seeing you because of some sort of loyalty thing, you know? But maybe I’m just mad that you talk to them in general. You left, you should stay gone. They deserve better.”

“Says the back-stabbing asshole who showed up on my doorstep.”

Stiles tries to formulate a response but Derek cuts him off. “Listen, before New York I hadn’t talked to them since I left. Happy?”

“No, not happy.”

“What would make you happy, then?” he asks, sounding almost sincere.

Stiles’ mind reels as he tries to find a response he can actually say out loud. If you had never left. If the rest of them weren’t going to leave too. “If you came to Europe with us,” he says with more strength than he feels. 

“You’re out of your damn mind.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“I said no earlier, I shouldn’t have to say no again.”

“I wasn’t asking you earlier, so it didn’t count.”

“You’re a little shit,” Derek exclaims, more animated than Stiles had so far seen him. 

“Look me in the eye and tell me how passionate you feel about law and I’ll leave it be, then.”

“I don’t have to prove my _passions_ to you. How about I look you in the eye and tell you how much I don’t want to live on a bus with you again?”

“Well then you’ll fit in perfectly with the rest of them,” Stiles says softly, voice catching in his throat.

Derek’s frustration ebbs. He looks confused instead of angry. He looks concerned instead of put-out. And Stiles offers him a sad half-smile and a shrug.

“Just think about it.”

Stiles turns back toward the door and reaches for the handle, hoping that Derek will say something. He opens the door and hopes that Derek will say something. He steps outside and hopes that Derek will say something. He pulls the door closed behind him and—

“I’ll think about it.”

“Whaa—I mean, yeah. Cool. Apparently you um… know how to get into contact so um… Yeah.”

Derek nods stiffly at him and closes the door between them with a soft click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake Tales of San Francisco is an Arctic Monkeys song.
> 
> Happy New Year! Happy Teen Wolf 3B Day! Wooo! 
> 
> <33


	9. Head Full of Doubt / Road Full of Promise

October 3rd.  
Beacon Hills.

Derek watches Stiles’ Jeep pull out of the driveway before he goes back to the kitchen table and his stack of woefully unread case studies. Two months. He’s been trying to love this for two months. Two months and he still doesn’t have the required attention span to parse these monstrous studies. 

He rubs his temples, legalese blurring into gray as his eyes slip out of focus. His heart is still working too hard, his hands still clammy…

When he had seen Stiles in New York, he had felt adrenaline’s fight or flight demand but that had been nothing compared to this. From within a moving taxi and with a few lanes of traffic in between them, Derek had been so much safer.

Face to face, finding himself falling victim to his signature charm, being close enough to touch him, drinking from the same bottle… Derek resists the urge to touch his lips at the thought… Derek almost felt sick. His face… Stiles’ face was so expressive. Derek had forgotten. Sure, he could be infuriatingly aloof when he wanted to be. He was completely confident and unreadable when he walked in the door but he hadn’t left that way. 

What had he meant by “you’ll fit in perfectly with the rest of them”? His face had been so soft and open when he said it. He sounded so defeated.

There was no way Derek could do this. Fifteen painfully awkward minutes had Derek over-analyzing. It was unhealthy.

Derek hadn’t over-extended himself to the brink of exhaustion while blowing through undergrad just to give up on law school two months in. 

Unhealthy, unhealthy, unhealthy.

The same argument could have been made for leaving the band. He hadn’t worked that hard to just give it all up, but he had.

There was one destructive and common factor between then and the temptation brewing in the pit of his stomach now: Stiles Stilinski. 

Stiles Stilinski had broken his heart and he would do it again if Derek let him. Which he wouldn’t. He couldn’t lose everything twice. His fatal flaw could not and would not be Stiles Stilinski.

“Hales don’t have Achilles’ Heels,” his father had once said. 

So no, Derek would not go run off and play rock star again. He was going to fight tooth and nail to live up to his father’s legacy and his expectations. No more derailments. No more distractions. No more Stiles Stilinski. Fuck him. The best thing he’d ever done was give up on him. 

He goes back to reading.

Or… attempts to.

He can hear the clock ticking its way toward the end of his life – forever doomed to swim through legal documents and reject any call of the wild that may filter through. Forever doomed to fail to feel the same passion his father felt for this. Two months and he already hated it.

If the band was down a bassist, that hurt Lydia and Scot too. If they still hadn’t found one by now, they were probably panicking. Lydia had mentioned that Europe wasn’t too long after their summer tour ended, so they had to be close to leaving.

And Derek had two months until final exams. Could he seriously make it another two months? His classes were so boring he wanted to scream sometimes. Just stand up in the middle of lecture and yell about how bored he was. Maybe if some of the other future lawyers looked at him and agreed and cheered a little, maybe with all eyes on him again he’d feel a little better.

But Derek didn’t like attention. He had never liked the fame that came along with Smokes for Harris. But he did love performing. He loved the fans who knew all the words to their songs and sang back at them from the crowd. He loved playing for the kids who waited in line over night. He loved meeting the kids who traveled long ways just to see them. He loved playing with his best friends. He loved traveling. His attention span could handle killing time on buses if it meant he got to get on stage every night. 

Derek runs his thumb across the smooth tips of his fingers, the soft ghosts of hard won calluses, as he walks out of the kitchen and toward what will eventually be a guest room. Or an office. Or something. Currently, its sole purpose is to store the boxes he hasn’t bothered to unpack and his bass collection.

His oldest and most beloved bass has the most beat up case of them all. Frayed edges, upturned and filthy corners of stickers, a cruddy old baggage claim tag strung through the handle… he runs his hands over a partially rubbed off message written in silver Sharpie: “Scottie McCall broke your baby and owes you his life. Offer expires never. Be gentle. Signed, Scott McCall.” 

Scott had tripped over the neck when Derek left it sitting around on the bus. Isaac had known a guy at a music store at the next tour stop and they fixed it but Scott had still felt guilty. Derek milked it as much as possible for the rest of tour. 

He wonders if he even remembers the songs he wrote. Aside from forcing himself to listen to their albums once through upon their releases, he hadn’t listened to Smokes for Harris at all since he left.

Inside the case, the acoustic love of his former life gleams at him. All honey-toned sheen and steel strings, the smell of wood and stale cigarette smoke clinging to the case lining. 

Her curve settles against Derek’s lap like she was meant to be there, her strings way too loose under his touch like she craved him. He wonders if he can still tune by ear as he twists the tuning keys. The notes bend and wave and they click into place. Derek strums and feels harmony humming around him. 

And then he’s playing and humming and then he’s singing. He plays until his back aches from sitting on the floor for too long, until his fingers feel like they’re close to bleeding. 

He doesn’t even remember his homework until it was way too late so he just goes to bed. Even though he’s positively fucked for class, he hasn’t felt so peaceful in months. He can’t even rustle up the energy to feel regretful about his unread assignments. He can practically hear the call of the road – tires on asphalt, cheering crowds, the cacophony of feedback and cymbals and whirring lights and everything…

He falls asleep feeling as though he’s being rocked to sleep on a bus hurtling to the next Somewhere.

**

October 4th.  
San Francisco, CA.

Stiles misses the car to the airport by mere minutes, but he meets them at the terminal with plenty of time to spare. He’s trying, by God. He’s going to try this time.

Allison, as predicted, is positively fuming. Doesn’t she know that he’s going to try? He’s going to do good for all of them. Starting now.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she asks, her voice in that scary but quiet range.

“I slept in,” he attempts.

“Bullshit. I was told you checked out yesterday morning. So where the hell have you been?”

He’s about to explain himself when he sees Scott and Lydia glaring at him. He waits to see if they’re going to jump in on this yelling thing… he’d prefer if they did. 

“Do you two have anything to add?” he asks them, trying to rile them up. See? Trying. Stiles is trying to be inclusive.

He’s met with stony silence so he turns back to his angry manager.

“Listen, Al, I know it looks back but I was just—“

“Oh this better be good.”

“I mean, it’s not… it’s not bad?”

Just then Stiles’ phone dings in his hand. Allison looks exasperated when he looks down to read it.

“What are you fucking smiling about?” she hisses when he looks back up.

“I found us a bassist,” he says, throwing his arms toward the heavens.

“I don’t care if you’ve found a bassist, I’ve already contacted a few potential replacements who you will be meeting with back in LA,” Allison protests.

“No, no, I’ve found _the_ bassist.” He brushes past Allison and hands his phone to Scott. 

“What’s it say?” Lydia asks, trying to read over Scott’s shoulder.

“I’ve thought about it. Have Allison send me the details,” Scott reads in disbelief. “Thought about what?”

“Is that from… no… impossible…” Lydia says in wonderment, grabbing the phone to get a closer look. “How’d you manage…?”

“Don’t say I never did anything for us,” Stiles says, grinning. 

**  
October 5th.   
Sacramento, CA.

“How’d you do it?” Allison asks, her feet in Stiles’ lap, heels discarded on the floor beneath the chair. 

“I told you.”

“You didn’t make a blood sacrifice to a volcano god, Stiles,” she argues through her laughter. They’re waiting for their red-eye to Austin and he’s enjoying her like this. Hair up in a messy bun, smiling, the tension in her shoulders temporarily missing, tired but not quite exhausted. It’d been awhile since Allison has actually liked being around Stiles.

And the show had gone well, which Stiles hadn’t been able to say for awhile. Today, the band got along. Today, Stiles felt like he really could keep trying as long as it was for them. They could get through Europe, they could go boldly into hiatus and they just might come back from it too. Maybe.

“You don’t know that I didn’t. There are active volcanoes in the Bay Area.”

“No there aren’t.”

“There are formerly active volcanoes though.”

“So, inactive then.”

“See, your problem is that you don’t believe.”

“My problem is that you won’t tell me how you somehow convinced Derek Hale to come out of retirement even though you two…” she makes a frantic gesture with her hand and leaves it at that.

“I asked him.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, not bullshit. I checked out of the hotel and ran away to Beacon Hills to hang out with my dad and I somehow ended up at his house, despite my better judgment, and I asked him.”

“I thought you were going to end up dead in an alley somewhere, as usual, and you’re telling me you just went and hung out with your dad?”

“Sorry. But I didn’t see you trying to call me and find out.”

“Part of me hoped you really were dead so I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit anymore,” she says with a wicked smirk. Stiles grins back at her. “So you really just asked him?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like he said yes right away. Meaning I don’t take full credit. He had a whole night of tossing and turning to figure it out.”

“Well, whatever then. Scott and Lydia are more than happy with it, you seem to not be imploding, I’m just glad this bassist search is over for now.” 

“For now?”

“Oh, he made it very clear this was just for Europe.”

“You’ve talked to him already?”

Allison simply looks at him.

“Of course you have. But I meant… I mean, after this tour…”

“We’re not talking about hiatus tonight, Stiles. We’re just going to get on this plane and sleep all the way to Austin. Shh.”

“Fine with me.”

**

October 6th.  
Austin, TX.

Stiles is drunk in a bar somewhere. Sacramento? No. Texas, not California. Austin. He lifts his heavy head and his whole body reels. He swears on everything in him that he could just as easily be in San Francisco or Chicago or Boston or Houston or Tallahassee or Omaha or any city in the world. His internal compass spins and spins and spins.

_“If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have to find a replacement for Isaac in the first place,” Scott yelled. Isaac didn’t disagree._

_“Do you think bringing Derek back is winning you any fucking points? Good job, you did the bare minimum to keep this band afloat, great fucking job, Stiles,” Scott yells. No one disagreed._

_“Well then try_ harder _because this shit—“ (he gestured wildly around him) “—isn’t going to cut it.” Stiles didn’t disagree._

Stiles groans and rubs his face with one hand, the other clutching a tumbler of something amber. His blood is acid. He is not okay. He is about to…

He wakes up thinking about a book he read once. Mercury… poison… egg yolks, something something. It was a long book. Stiles keeps his eyes screwed shut and tries to remember the title to keep from thinking about how much he wants to throw up. 

“Stiles…”

“I don’t think I even finished it, it was… something… about… New York City.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Shhhh…” Her voice makes him want to throw up.

A soft hand rests against his forehead. The owner of the voice must be in bed with him. And she didn’t call him Sam and Stiles is so totally screwed.

“Please tell me we used a condom,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“As if you’d be so lucky,” the creature beside him scoffs. 

Stiles dares a peek, opening one eye just slightly, and sees Lydia. He can’t remember a goddamn thing, but the room is so bright and he definitely needs to throw up. 

“Try to make it to the bathroom, thanks!” Lydia calls after him as he runs for it.

Stiles does, okay. And he stays there for awhile, too busy retching to try to piece together his night or try to remember the name of some random book that might have actually been a movie or an episode of Law and Order or something.

“Allison is calling you, should I just answer it?” Lydia asks from the doorway. Stiles is lying on the floor, cheek pressed against the sweet, cool tile. He grunts his approval. 

He hears her voice as if through a waterfall – distant, a jumble of lows and highs, unintelligible. And then she’s back.

“What’d she want?” Stiles mumbles almost incoherently.

“To know your whereabouts, as usual.”

Stiles groans. Lydia sits on the edge of the tub and looks down at him. The entire bathroom is encased in a blinding halo of _bright_ and Lydia is a beautiful red-headed smudge. Stiles feels like gum stuck to a busy sidewalk. Feels like a membranous sack of putrescence. 

“You’re a mess,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“Mmhmm.”

“You blacked out in a shitty bar in a really bad part of a town you know next to nothing about. You are falling apart. You are irresponsible and selfish. What the fuck is wrong with you? I know things are rough right now but you need to grow up.” 

And that hurts too. Stiles can’t distinguish mental anguish from the warfare his body is undergoing but he knows it’s piled on in there somewhere. “Excellent pep talk.”

“I am not trying to be mean to you, Stiles. I want you to listen to me. You need to accept some blame here, but you are not the only one, okay? We are in this shit together and we’re going down with this ship and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“So inspirational.”

“We need this break.”

“You all keep calling it a break like we’re going to be coming back from it,” Stiles mutters with as much effort as he can muster.

Lydia is silent for a minute. “That’s to be seen,” she eventually settles on.

Stiles scoffs.

“If we come back, things are going to have to be different.”

Stiles doesn’t respond.

“And if we don’t, maybe that’s for the best.”

Stiles still doesn’t respond. They remain silent for so long that Stiles nearly falls asleep, but Lydia clears her throat. 

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks.

“Oh, eventually. Always am.” He takes a deep and heartening breath and pulls himself up into sitting position. He doesn’t open his eyes until the room stops spinning. When he does, he sees Lydia’s grim expression. “So, care to fill me in on what happened last night? Did I embarrass myself?”

She sighs. “Aside from falling asleep in a bowl of pretzels at a shitty bar, you mean?”

“Oh that’s nothing,” Stiles brushes off. “How’d I end up here?”

“You got too drunk and didn’t know how to get back here so you called Scott to come rescue you and he was uh… he was busy so he had me get a cab to go find you.”

“Why didn’t you just dump me in my own room then?”

“I was worried.”

“Smokes for Harris Frontman Found Dead in Hotel Room in Austin,” Stiles says in his best news anchor voice. “His Band is Pleased. More on that at nine.”

“Shut up,” she snaps. 

“What was Scott so busy with?”

“I don’t know.”

“He wasn’t busy, Lydia. So what’d he really say? Because if it was in line with anything he said after the show last night…”

“You take all of that up with Scott, keep me out of it.”

“You put yourself in it. You are in it. Going down with our ship, remember?”

She glares at him. “And you really blame him for what he said? Do you think he was grossly misguided in what he was saying?” She’s gearing up for a blustery argument and Stiles doesn’t have the stomach for it.

“No.”

“No?”

“I think he was right.”

“Well he wasn’t. He was mean and you didn’t deserve it,” she sighs, deflated. “But the way he feels is valid and you keep on running away instead of just talking to him.”

Stiles shrugs. “So why couldn’t he be my knight in shining armor?”

“He said he didn’t want to be the one to clean up your mess for once.”

Stiles nods, feels his world tilt, feels his center of gravity shudder. “And you pulled the short straw?”

“I could have called Allison. Or Boyd. But I didn’t. You should be thankful.”

And he is. He just doesn’t know how to say it. Instead he goes with: “Eventually, you’re going to give up on me too.”

“No I’m not.” Her voice has a wavering strength, but strength nonetheless. Stiles actually believes her. 

“Promise?” Stiles asks, softening.

She sets her jaw and nods. 

He looks at her and he loves her. He wants to say so but instead he says, “Bonfire of the Vanities.”

“Huh?” she asks.

“The book. New York, 80s, Wall Street, crime, whatever. It was boring, but good. I definitely never finished it.”

She rolls her eyes and leans forward to kiss him on the forehead. “What do you say to room service and trashy TV?”

“I say absolutely.”

**

October 10th.  
New York City.

They’re waiting for their flight to LA while Isaac waits for his flight to Chicago. Scott is heartbroken, Lydia is glum, and Stiles can feel the weight of a heavy door starting to swing closed. 

At the end of their set the night before, Stiles had realized that he’d never toured without Isaac. He’d just been some curly headed kid from Chicago who needed a gig and could play bass really well. They met him while they were recording their first album through mutual acquaintances. Derek took a liking to him and asked him to be their bass tech. Isaac learned everything he knew about being a tech on the road with them. He got so good so fast that it could have been a real career for him. When Derek left, he was about to go out with a different band and he dropped everything to help them. 

Stiles has always had a delayed sense of remorse.

They’re so tired. The whole mood is off. Isaac is acting as though there’s nothing wrong, but there is. The lounge is eerily quiet with Scott, Lydia and Isaac sitting close together by the giant window that overlooks the tarmac.

With a drink carrier full of coffee in hand, Stiles comes in peace. 

“A mocha thing for Scott,” he announces, handing it to him. “Skinny vanilla latte for the lady.” Lydia looks at him skeptically as she accepts. “And for Isaac, café au lait.” 

“Thanks,” he says, smiling politely in a “too-little-too-late” kind of way. 

And it is. He’s trying to fix things but it is way too late for it. Coffee can’t fix this. No small gestures are going to save the band. Sure, he resented him sometimes… for not being Derek, for stealing Scott… but at the end of all things, Isaac was a brother to him. Stiles already feels himself starting to choke on all the things he won’t be able to say to Isaac before he boards his flight, or ever.

The boarding announcement for Isaac’s flight to O’Hare came on overhead and Scott’s face fell.

“And that’s my cue,” Isaac says with a sigh. Lydia’s frown deepens. “Hugs all around, guys, bring it in.”

He starts with Lydia, moves on to Scott and then to Stiles.

When we come back, I want you with us. I’m sorry. Please come to Europe. Please don’t hate me. “Have a safe flight, man,” Stiles tells him mid-hug. 

“Thanks,” Isaac says, thumping him on the back.

**

October 11th.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

“I still can’t believe you’re actually coming with us. Is this the end of your retirement?” Danny asks. 

“No,” Derek answers. “I’m just doing some uh… friends a favor. Including you, sort of.”

“Hey, I’d have a job with or without you but I still appreciate it. It’ll be like old times!”

Derek scoffs. “I seriously doubt it will be, but we’ll see how it goes.”

Derek taps the speaker phone icon on his phone and sets it down to continue packing. 

“Are you still around or are you back in LA?” Derek asks.

“Back in LA, we’re checking on the gear at the storage space later. When are you flying down here?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“I would be too. Listen, if the talent bus is awkward, you can always come snuggle with me on the crew bus.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“But it’ll be fine.”

“How does one pack for an in international tour?” Derek asks to change the subject.

“Voltage adapters, clothing, toothbrush, passport.”

Derek surveys his mess of open suitcases. “Well then I’m almost done packing!”

“Doubt that. Listen, I have to go. But mark my words, this will be a great tour and you will be coming out of retirement because of it. That is my prediction.”

After hanging up with Danny, Derek paces. Derek’s done a lot of pacing lately.

Derek told his family after the fact. After it was too late for them to disapprove. After his withdrawal from classes went through, after his deferment was processed… That way, his mother’s only reaction was simmering disapproval and a helpless sigh. She was too tactful to say anything else. Derek knew every argument she had against it, considering he’d heard them all before.

Derek felt… nervous.

The tour itinerary was demanding and he wasn’t used to it. He had rehearsals in LA starting the next day and he wasn’t ready for that. He had to pack enough stuff for a month long tour into as few bags as possible, had to find his passport, had to check and double check his gear before leaving, had to clean his house to get it ready to be vacant…

He wasn’t built like this anymore. 

But he was also practically thrumming with the electricity of excitement.

**

October 11th.  
Los Angeles, CA

“Get out of my office,” Allison said, not even looking up from her computer screen when Stiles walked in.

“You’re my manager, you work for me.”

“Keep thinking that,” she said mysteriously. “I am on a Smokes for Harris vacation until tomorrow.”

“Do you even have other clients?”

“Your prodigy,” she says simply. Stiles notes that she still hasn’t looked at him.

“My prodi— Royales?”

“Mmmhmm,” she murmurs, finally looking over at him. 

“Since when?” 

“This week. See, it’s convenient because they’re your label mates and we’ve toured with them before and we’re about to tour with them again and Smokes is about to go on hiatus.”

“Right, of course. But will you have time for both of us if we come back?”

“Yes.”

“How? We won’t always tour together.”

“And I won’t always tour with my acts,” she says, betraying nothing. Part of Stiles will always see her as the youngblood manager wearing her act’s shirt and singing in the crowd on their first tour, so the thought is totally foreign. “That’s why we have tour managers.”

Stiles sits down across from her with a huff.

“Why are you here?” she asks, finally turning her attention to him.

“So Derek’s in town tomorrow,” he starts.

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Rehearsals are at 10 sharp.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he says through gritted teeth.

She flips forward a page in her giant planner and runs her finger down the page. “LAX, arriving 8:15. Why?”

“What terminal?”

“Virgin. Why?”

“I’ll pick him up.”

“I have a driver scheduled.”

“Save some money, I’ll get him.”

She looks at him as though he has an ulterior motive. “Why?” she asks again.

“I want to talk to him before rehearsal. Do you need him before rehearsals tomorrow?”

She sighs and leans back in her chair. “No.”

“So… I can go get him!”

“Fine. Busy day tomorrow, make sure you’re on time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

**

October 12th.  
Los Angeles, CA.

There’s a creature with grey jeans, a flannel shirt and expensive sunglasses waiting for him with a cart at baggage claim and Derek internalizes the groan he feels rising in his chest. He wasn’t ready for this.

“Top o’ the morning,” he says, smiling. 

“Profits must be down, huh?” Derek asks with a tight smile of his own.

Stiles shrugs. “I figured I’d rip off the bandaid, you know? Welcome to LA. Where to?”

Stiles is a good driver aside from the crippling anxiety his silence exudes throughout the entire morning. Derek’s about to burst from his skin to escape the discomfort when they finally pull into a parking spot outside of a building that Derek presumes is home to the rehearsal space.

“Okay, I just… wanted to talk to you before rehearsal,” Stiles blurts out as he puts the car in park.

“Uh, okay?”

“I thought I should just let you know what you’re walking into.”

“Oh. Fair.”

“Fair,” he repeats, voice faltering a little. His lamp-like eyes take Derek in and he feels exposed. Fair/Unfair. Derek hadn’t thought of it in awhile. They used to burn through hours playing Fair/Unfair in the lounge, they used to whisper it under hotel sheets when they couldn’t sleep. “That was _unfair_ of you.”

Derek smiles despite his best efforts not to. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“I know. It’s fine, sorry I um… made it weird? Yeah so…” Stiles falls silent as he grips and twists at his steering wheel. Nervous hands.

“You wanted to talk?” Derek reminds him.

“Yeah. Listen, Lydia and Scott know everything, obviously. Allison too. About us. Our… thing, you know? And uh Royales, you’ll meet them later on, they don’t know anything about us but they are incredible people, you’ll really love them. As far as the crew goes, Boyd, Jackson, Danny and Goldberg are the only ones who were around when you were still around. Boyd is our tour manager now, and we have Marcus on security. You’ll love Marcus. He’s an asshole like you. I mean… I’m sorry, that was… I didn’t mean. I mean like… he’s a lovable jerk not that you’re… lovable. Shit. You know what I mean.”

“Uh, yes.”

Stiles’ cheeks are flushed and he’s wringing the hell out of his steering wheel. “But uh… yeah. Listen, things with the band are a little tense right now. That’s not you, it really isn’t so don’t feel uncomfortable. If you hear any… hiatus talk… well, that is what it is.”

“Oh… okay.” 

“I mean, I thought you’d want to know.”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s uh… good to know.”

“I know how you are. You get all paranoid. And on that note, we can either act like nothing happened or we can avoid each other or we can try to be mature adults and move forward. Up to you. I’m prone to avoiding each other as much as possible just because um, well you’ll see. It’s nothing personal. But if you want to try to move forward, I’ll try too.”

Derek stares at him, searching him for an answer to a question he hasn’t formulated yet. 

“What?” Stiles asks, squirming a little in his seat.

“You’re different,” Derek decides.

Stiles’ hand shakes as he reaches to take his keys out of the ignition. “Fair,” he mutters. 

**

January 19th, 2011.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

Derek paced angrily in his room while Stiles sat uncomfortably at the desk. 

“You can’t keep doing this,” Derek said finally, planting his feet.

“Doing what?” Stiles asked, chewing on his hood’s drawstring.

“Flirting with me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Straight boy scared?” Stiles asked, defiant.

Derek growled in frustration, his fists clenched. He wasn’t mad at Stiles, not really. He was lost. Confused. And Stiles was the cause. He was supposed to be meeting Paige soon and they were supposed to be doing homework. But now this… Derek took a deep breath and tried to regain control of his temper.

“Let’s play Fair/Unfair,” Derek said evenly.

Stiles sighed. “Fine. You start.” 

“You like flirting with me.”

“Fair. You like being flirted with.”

Derek considered lying but couldn’t. “Fair. You like to flirt with me to make me mad.”

“Unfair. You get mad because you don’t like that you like when I hit on you.”

Derek was caught between answers for a second but went with his gut. “Unfair. You hate Paige.”

“Unfair. You want to stop playing Fair/Unfair.”

“Unfair,” Derek said with a definitive head shake. “You have a crush on me.”

“Unfair on the grounds that you’re breaking the rules of this game.”

“Unfair. We made up the rules, we can break them. You have a crush on me.”

“Which statement am I responding to?”

“You have a crush on me.”

Stiles stood up and moved a couple steps closer. “Fair,” he said, a predatory flash in his eyes. “You like that I have a crush on you.”

Derek tried his best to turn his face into a neutral mask as he thought about it. “Fair.”

Stiles smirked and stepped closer.

Derek felt as though he’d been backed into a corner. He couldn’t even remember where this was supposed to go or what he wanted to accomplish but this wasn’t it. “You want to stop playing Fair/Unfair.”

“Unfair. You’re confused.”

“Fair.” Derek clenched his jaw. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Fair,” he said flippantly, walking directly into Derek’s personal space. Derek backed up instinctually and found himself in a literal corner. Stiles steals a glance at Derek’s lips before looking back up, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “You like flirting with me.”

“F-f-false,” Derek stuttered. Stiles laughed and Derek felt uplifted by the sound. He laughed too, looking down bashfully. Stiles leaned forward slightly so their foreheads met.

“Not an answer, I’m afraid,” Stiles said softly. “You like flirting with me.”

“Fair,” Derek said, hating himself for enjoying their close proximity when he was supposed to be meeting his girlfriend any time now. “I have to go meet Paige.”

“Unfair,” Stiles said, pouting as he stepped away from Derek and turned toward the desk. Stiles seemed so unfazed, but Derek saw his hands shaking. “Well, to close it all out as gentlemen do: You want to stop playing Fair/Unfair,” Stiles said as he shouldered his backpack. 

“Unfair.”

“Plot twist…” Stiles said with uncertainty.

“If you thought I’d let you, you’d kiss me.” Derek felt his stomach churn with fear the second he said it, shocked even at himself. 

“Oh absolutely fair,” Stiles answered with no hesitation, grinning. 

“Well then…” Derek said, feeling his throat go dry. Stiles’ eyebrows lifted in surprise and then he laughed. 

“You’re a tease,” Stiles said, striding back over to Derek where he stood still as a statue. “Come here, big guy.” He grabbed Derek by the chin, wiggled his face as a mother would to her child and pecked him on the lips. Before he could fully pull away, Derek grabbed his wrist and tried to tell him something with his face that his mouth refused to.

Their eyes locked and the mirth drained out of Stiles’ face. Stiles used his free hand to wrap around the back of Derek’s head. He brought Derek’s face closer to his and Derek couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.

“You’ll have to earn it,” Stiles said, his voice soft and low. He smiled and released his hold on Derek’s head. Derek felt marooned.

“Unfair,” he called after Stiles as he left.

**

Present Day.  
Los Angeles, CA

Stiles would never forget the look on Lydia’s face when he told her Derek had quit the band. It was burned into his memory for life. But when she sees him walk into the rehearsal space with his bass in hand, it’s as though Lydia had never felt that devastation. Stiles wishes he could forget too. He tried, he really did. He forced himself to go talk to him, he asked him to come tour with them, he told himself every day that he’d be okay with it, he begged to pick him up from the airport so he could show how over it he was and how evolved he was and then he utterly failed to be over it and evolved.

One part contempt to two parts humiliation.

How desperate.

How reckless.

And now he had to live with the consequences.

Lydia is still squealing over Derek when Scott brushes past Stiles to get to him too. As if Scott didn’t hate him once too. As if Scott hadn’t been on his side before.

Stiles puts his guitar case down with a little too much force and flicks the clasps open as loudly as possible. The other three are too busy talking excitedly to notice that Stiles is not here to fuck around today, no sir. He straps his guitar to himself and plugs it in to the amp and waits for them to join him.

Stiles doesn’t have exes, he has Derek. But he imagines this bubbling irritation and jealousy is way worse than what normal people feel.

“Can we rehearse? We have a lot to do today,” Stiles says into the rickety mic that’s already been set up for him. The three stop and turn to him. Lydia has a knowing look on her face that Stiles doesn’t want to decode and Scott looks mad and Stiles doesn’t look at Derek at all.

**

October 2nd, 2014.  
Los Angeles, CA.

“Where’s Derek?” Scott asked when they arrived.

“He’s not coming.”

Lydia huffed indignantly. “What do you mean he’s not coming? We have a week until we’re in the studio and we need to start working—“

“He’s not coming.”

“You said that, but—“

“He quit.”

None of them said a word, the shock too young to morph into devastation. They just… settled in.

Lydia sat in the upstairs window seat of Stiles’ brand new, totally empty house as she looked out over the darkening neighborhood beyond. Scott sat on the floor, his eyes trained on his own hands. Stiles leaned in the doorway, ready to run if he had to.

Stiles had expected the first word out of anyone’s mouth to be “why,” maybe even some severe character assassination, or at the worst some sort of blame. Stiles felt so responsible. He had no answers for them, he had no excuses. They just had to look at him and think it was his fault. 

They stayed like that for so long that Stiles grew used to the soft sniffling coming from Lydia as she kept her face turned away from them, to the stony silence from Scott, to the clock ticking away the first seconds of the rest of his new post-Derek life… and then Lydia cleared her throat.

“What do we do now?” she asked, her voice rough from crying and disuse. 

Stiles had no answers, had no excuses…

Scott sniffed too, rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his sweater. “We get to work,” he said and then stood up as if to demonstrate a point. “We call someone… does Allison know? Does the label know?” he asked, looking toward Stiles.

Stiles nodded.

Stiles saw the flash of hurt on Scott’s face, and it was a lot like the one Stiles had felt when he found out they all knew before he did too.

“Alright, so we get another bassist. We can call Isaac or someone. And after we do that, we get to work and we get into the studio and we record this and we do it and we just keep going.”

Lydia nodded. She smoothed out her skirt and stood up too. “Scott’s right. This isn’t the end of the world. Stiles, you already had some stuff you were working on, right?”

Stiles had no answers, had no excuses…

“Right?” she asked again.

Stiles shook his head, casting his gaze toward the carpet and away from them.

“Stiles. You showed us. Even if we want to scrap it, it’s a starting point—“

Stiles shook his head again, once… twice… too many times. He couldn’t stop shaking his head. He had no answers, no excuses… He wanted them to yell and to blame him and to crucify him and to hate him but they weren’t going to. He needed them to punish him and they weren’t going to. 

He didn’t realize he was crying until Lydia wrapped herself around him. He hadn’t been able to yet. He had thought he should be angry and hurt but instead he had been indifferent. Now the dull throb of pain was a full-bodied terror. He slowly slid until he was sitting and Lydia followed him. Scott walked over and wrapped himself around both of them. Huddled in the doorway with his two remaining best friends, Stiles had never felt more unsure than then. 

In the coming weeks of writing and recording, Stiles operated at half-capacity. Numb and overwhelmed by his band and studio people. Hurting and lonely. Numb and lonely, hurting and overwhelmed. He would find that no one writes self-help books about being left by your boyfriend who you had never called your boyfriend who happened to be the bassist in your band and the best writing partner you’ve ever met who quit you and your band at the same time. No one wrote articles about how to tactfully talk to the press about the “artistic differences” that caused your secret non-boyfriend boyfriend to quit the band while maintaining your charming reputation. 

**

Present Day.  
Los Angeles, CA.

Derek was blown away by how much his former band mates had grown since he left and how great it felt to be back with them. Lydia’s dedication and endless pursuit of perfection had made her into a drummer with impeccable timing and rhythm early on, but her technical ability was way beyond what he had ever seen. And Scott had somehow become a confident backing vocalist, matching Stiles note for note almost effortlessly. That used to be Derek’s thing. And Stiles… He’d never heard Stiles’ voice so strong before. 

He’d always known Stiles to be a great pretender. He could go from sick and asleep to glowing and personable in a matter of seconds, Derek had seen him do it. He did it for the press, he did it for label meetings, he did it for everything and everyone whenever it was necessary. But today, he was not putting on a show for anyone. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t chat in between songs. He hardly even gave notes. 

Derek had never seen him uninterested in his own band.

**

“Here’s our strategy,” Allison says from her seat at the head of the table. “There will be a press day before we set off for Europe, and that’s when Derek’s part in this is going to be made public—“

“So how are ticket sales?” Stiles asks from the opposite side of the table. Derek shoots a look at him and sees that he’s smirking humorlessly as he leans back in his chair. 

“This isn’t a publicity stunt. It’s either this or we waltz Derek onstage in Oslo and the rumors start flying. We want to be clear with the fans, we don’t want them assuming things and getting their hopes up.”

“They’re going to anyway,” Stiles points out. “They don’t generally believe PR, they believe what they want to believe.”

“For example?” Allison asks, eyebrow raised. 

Everyone looks to Stiles. “I know you think you run a tight ship here, Allison, and you do. But you don’t run the fans. What was your least favorite thing before Derek left?”

Derek can’t help but blush the second he realizes what Stiles is getting at. Allison’s mouth stretches into a thin line when she catches on too.

“Sometimes very well-drawn images come to mind. Photoshopped pictures of the two of us—“

“We get it, thanks,” Allison cuts in. “I don’t care about pornographic fanworks, I don’t care if they get their hopes up. I just want us to be on record as saying that Derek isn’t coming back permanently, as per his own terms. And in the fans’ defense, their theories were right and the PR _was_ bullshit, now wasn’t it?” Allison crosses her arms and leans back. 

Derek doesn’t dare look toward Stiles, but he knows he’s glaring back at her.

“Can’t even get through a simple meeting,” Lydia sighs. “So we’re having a little press day and announcing that Derek is touring and then we’re going to answer a lot of questions about being a happy little family unit who is so very happy to have Derek along one last time. And then we’re going to talk about how excited we are for Europe and say that we’re probably going to start writing after the tour, right?”

Allison turns her attention away from Stiles to look at Lydia, her expression softening. “Yes, basically.”

“Perfect. Now can we just talk through the itinerary?” She has her pen poised over her planner and an air of business about her that Derek finds oddly comforting. “I think we should be mentally prepared for what lies ahead. I see we have a couple TV appearances…” 

After the brief but tension-filled meeting, they meet up with some of the roadies at the storage space. Derek is surprised by the flood of emotion that comes from seeing the ancient relics of Smokes for Harris past strewn amongst things he doesn’t even recognize. The mixture of eras is mind boggling. He’d only been gone for two years, but the evidence of the constant touring the band endured during that time is everywhere. 

He doesn’t have anything to do there, so he just stands by Danny and Jackson and observes.

Danny hems and haws at the confounding tangle of cables dumped unceremoniously onto mysterious road cases. “Well, at least some of the space issue will be solved by sharing equipment with Royales. Could you imagine two sets of boards and everything?” he says eventually.

“Let’s be real, I don’t need ten guitars. I just need a solid acoustic and a couple electric,” Scott discusses with who Derek assumes is the guitar tech. 

Allison is arguing with someone on the phone by the door, Lydia is giving her drum tech advice on how to avoid gnarly drum hands, Greenberg and Boyd are working their way through a checklist on a clipboard… It’s chaotic and familiar and Derek is soaking it in. 

“Well, I still need to talk to the guys in London. Our buses are out of the UK and that’s where the equipment we’re renting is from too. That’s what’s making the equipment budget look so bloated,” Jackson is explaining to Danny when Derek decides to explore the space.

“Yo, Derek, come meet Bennett real quick,” Scott calls to him. “Ben’s our guitar dude, he’s great.”

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Bennett says, shaking his hand. “You’re going to have a bass tech too, but she’s from Royales’ camp so we won’t see her until Oslo.”

“Are we sharing techs?” Derek asks, perplexed.

“Yeah, we’re really streamlining this tour. It’s going to be… interesting,” Scott says, looking uncertain. 

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Bennett laughs. “We might end up with a few Northern European crew members if this doesn’t go well. What kind of equipment are we looking at for you?”

“I have three of my basses with me. I’m pretty simple to pack for.”

“I think we still have some of your pedals around here, actually,” Scott says, turning to examine the mess around him. “Somewhere.”

Derek looks toward Bennett and sees that he’s wandered off to talk to Boyd and Greenberg. While Scott digs around, he surveys the space. It’s a medium sized concrete eyesore with Smokes for Harris signs and set pieces from every tour leaning at the back. Cardboard boxes full of old merch, road cases full of who knows what, boards and pedals and sound equipment and wires and cables and Lydia’s old sets are piled and stacked everywhere. There seem to be some natural footpaths through the mess that indicate some sort of order to the madness. Amongst it, he sees Lydia, Allison, Boyd, Greenberg, Danny, Jackson, Bennett, the drum tech and Scott… but no Stiles.

“Stiles is the one who understands the organization of this place, I’m not even going to try,” Scott says, walking back toward Derek. “Your pedals are somewhere, they will be found.”

Derek hmms thoughtfully in response. This was exactly what he didn’t want to get himself into. He wasn’t going to let himself ponder on Stiles and try to understand him because that was going to undo a lot of hard work. “Where is he, anyway?”

Scott looks around the room and when his search comes up empty he shrugs. “He probably just took off, his specialty.”

The phrase triggers a distant memory of a London night club years ago ( _”A bathroom stall? How original.” “Hmmm, my specialty.”_ ) and Derek feels the incriminating blush creeping across his cheeks.

“So uh… what’s up with Stiles?”

Scott sighs. “I don’t know, we’re not really talking right now.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Scott shrugs. “He’s at a weird place in his life, I think. He um… is really good some days, other days he’s like… well, like he was today. He’s hard to get along with.”

“How jaded rockstar of him.”

“Nah, that’s not it. Not exactly.”

Lydia throws her arms around both of their necks, swinging between them for a second before settling back onto her feet. “Your ride left,” she informs Derek. “But you boys should absolutely come over for drinks.”

“Can’t, I have a date night,” Scott declines, answering her puppy dog eyes with an exaggerated frown. 

“What about you, huh?” she asks Derek, pushing Scott away. 

“I could use a drink.”

**

Stiles already had a few shots to his name by the time Danny got to his house. Stiles pulled him inside by the front of his shirt and kissed him before the door swung closed.

“Wow, contact buzz,” Danny mutters into his lips. 

“You want something? I can mix something up or just pour something directly in your mouth, preferably with you on your knees…” Stiles trails off and kisses Danny’s neck.

“Yes,” Danny answers. “All of the above.”

“Great,” Stiles chirps, pulling Danny toward the kitchen.

“Soo, how awful was your day?” Danny asks brightly.

“Ohh, it was real awful, Daniel.” Stiles answers just as brightly as he starts mixing up a gin and tonic. Or something close to a gin and tonic at least. “And how was your day?”

“Productive.”

“And so it shall continue to be,” Stiles declares, gesturing for him to come closer. He waits until Danny’s body is pressed against his side before handing him his drink.

“I don’t need to be drunk to fuck you, you know that,” Danny protests but accepts the tumbler anyway. “Or do you need to be drunk for this, is that what it is?”

Stiles watches the muscles in Danny’s throat as he takes a sip, slides his eyes up to his lips glistening with gin when he sets the glass down. “You know, I’ve never properly dated anyone,” he says, curling a finger in Danny’s belt loop. “Never done the whole movie, dinner, kiss on the door step, scheduling a second date sort of thing. Have you?”

“Of course I have. I’m not a total degenerate like you.”

“Not totally, no. Have you ever been in love? Real, genuine, can’t live without you love?”

Stiles never talks like this and can see how strange it is for Danny to hear it written on his face. “Not really.”

“How’s that feel?”

“Um, I guess it feels… fine? Sometimes it’s lonely, mostly it’s fine. Why?”

“I just wanted a point of comparison.”

“To what?”

“To being a degenerate who has been in love.”

“Ah,” Danny says, his hands coming to rest on Stiles’ waist. 

“So how about it?” Stiles asks, forcing himself to say it, leaning on alcohol to excuse it. He’s not that drunk, he can still feel Derek’s eyes on him.

“How about what?” Danny asks, pulling him closer.

“Fall in love with me. We can attempt normalcy. Kiss on the Eiffel Tower, hold hands around Rome, snuggle for warmth through Europe…”

“It doesn’t work that way, we don’t work that way. You’re only saying this because of Derek.”

“I’m drunk, cut me some slack.”

“No you aren’t.”

Cover blown. Stiles steps away from Danny, cheeks burning. He grabs a nearly empty bottle of vodka by the neck and takes a drink.

“Don’t be embarrassed, I get it. And anyway, if you think being drunk is an excusable way to romance someone you have more problems than you realized.”

Danny has a very valid point.

**

“Listen, here’s the thing with Stiles Stilinski,” Lydia says after a long, thoughtful pause. “In light of his recent… funk… yeah let’s go with that. Funk. In light of his recent funk, I have been observing him.”

Derek giggles, covering his face with his drink-free hand. The thought of Stiles as a subject in a lab, decked out in sunglasses and leather, was very funny to him.

“No, shush,” Lydia slurs, laughing a little too. “No. So he hasn’t been talking to Scott, and Scott has actually been pretty mean to him lately when he tries anyway. And uh, he drinks too much and goes to his bunk before everyone else and doesn’t talk. And that’s fairly recent, that’s like… Second half of the tour stuff. Before he was fine.”

“Before New York,” Derek asks, pointing at her with his wine glass hand.

“Yeah.”

“So, before me.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“So this is my fault?”

“Oh no. Definitely not. This is a larger issue with Stiles… actually, in that case it might be a little bit related to you but not just because of New York. He didn’t even see you in New York.”

“Yeah he did.”

“Whoaaaa whoa whoa, when?”

“I mean, he didn’t… we didn’t meet face to face. I saw him from afar when you guys were at the Chelsea, he saw me leaving a restaurant. We were in moving vehicles.”

“Oh good. Because he tore us apart for meeting with you.”

“He did?”

“Ooooh, yeah,” Lydia laughs. “He found out, apparently, when he somehow ended up on your Instagram and saw a picture of you and Jackson and was creepy enough to actually look at the comments and saw me in there. And after that little fit is when Scott let the hiatus bomb drop.”

“So the hiatus. That’s a real thing, huh?”

Lydia sighed and leaned forward to refill her glass before she answered. “I mean, we’re going to need a break either way. Whether it’ll be an announced hiatus that ends up being a break up or not is… I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

“What’ll you do if it is a break up? Join another band? Start one?”

“Derek, I’m a drummer. I’m not going to start a band. I haven’t thought about it but… maybe I’ll go back to school. How’s law school?”

“I don’t recommend it.”

She’s silent while Derek stares out her window, mesmerized by the constant movement of a distant freeway. He looks back at her and sees a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “What?” he asks.

“I just missed you, I’m glad you’re with us on this one. Maybe it’ll do us all some good. Remind us of why we got into this in the first place.”

“You don’t want to quit, do you?” Derek asks.

She shakes her head. “Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head Full of Doubt / Road Full of Promise is an Avett Brothers song. (And it is perfect.)
> 
> Bonfire of the Vanities is a book by Tom Wolfe and "boring but good" is exactly how I feel about it too. It's confounding. The description of a hangover in that book is the best ever written, you should Google it.
> 
> ANYWAY this chapter is so so long and it's basically a big old information dump, for which I apologize. I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting and leaving kudos, you guys are just love personified.


	10. This Bird Has Flown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

October 13th.  
Los Angeles, CA.

Stiles sits on his stool, acoustic guitar in his lap. He only turned on half the lights when he crawled in an hour ago, but it still feels too bright.

In 8th grade, when Lydia was acting as though she thought Stiles and Scott were losers in front of her cool friends (and shortly after Stiles and Scott both got guitars for Christmas) Lydia had told him that she wouldn’t think they were cool for playing guitar until they could play Destiny’s Child. Her little clique giggled at them from behind her, so Stiles had taken the challenge very seriously. Lydia still didn’t own up to being their friend when they presented her with Destiny’s Child a month later at school, but Stiles would never forget these chords.

His head hurts and the only song he can remember how to play that isn’t one of his own is “Say My Name.” He’s played it so many times that he can hear backing drums and a bass line to go along with it in his mind.

The door opens with a heavy sucking sound and Lydia flips on the rest of the lights before she pushes it all the way open. She stops with a gasp when she sees Stiles.

“Jesus, Stiles. What are you doing here?”

Stiles stops playing only long enough to slide his sunglasses on and starts playing again. “I’m on time.”

Lydia laughs. “Good job.” She sets down the bass Stiles didn’t realize she was carrying and runs back to open the door.

Derek enters, balancing a full cup carrier and various bags.

“We brought breakfast,” Lydia announces. 

Stiles nods.

Derek doesn’t look at him as he sets things down. Stiles keeps playing.

Danny had shaken him awake this morning before he left. Had told him he should probably shower and change out of yesterday’s clothes before he went to rehearsal. Kissed him on the cheek like an old friend and left. Stiles had smiled into his pillow because Danny remembered how much Stiles hates waking up alone and then he remembered what had actually transpired the night before. 

A guy like Danny would never dare to attempt anything real with a guy like Stiles. Especially when it isn’t actually _real_ in the first place. In the clear light of day, Stiles knew that. All his desperate ploy had gotten him was embarrassment. And a tiny little hangover. 

“Are you playing what I think you’re playing?” Lydia asks, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ neck from behind.

“Mhmm,” Stiles murmurs. She kisses him on the top of the head and giggles into his hair. He leans back against her, fighting down a smile.

The door swings open and Scott strides in, sliding his backpack off his shoulders and tossing it on the ground as he goes. He stops when he hears Stiles playing.

“Yes!” he exclaims before air guitaring and singing along for a couple seconds. “Good morning everyone!”

Scott must be in love. Stiles wants to ask him about it but he’s not sure if he’s even allowed to.

“We brought breakfast, just in case you two were hungry. And coffee,” Lydia says, arm still around Stiles. “I thought it’d be nice if we could all just sit and eat and talk without anyone else around, you know?”

Scott agrees easily after checking out the spread Derek has set up. Stiles sets his guitar down to express compliance. 

**

October 15th.  
Burbank, CA.

The week had been mostly full of sitting and listening for Stiles. He feels jealousy rumbling in his chest, feels regret sitting heavy in his stomach, feels every inch of his nervous system buzzing with anxiety… but he bites his tongue. He swallows his cruelty. He inhales deep through the nose…

_”Have you listened to these albums?” Stiles asked Derek in a rare private moment during a break. He was catching on so fast…_

And exhales slowly through the mouth…

_Derek blushed. “A couple times, yeah.”_

He’s pressed against the car door, Lydia warm against his side. Stiles’ eyes slip out of focus as he takes in the crowd outside the studio. He can hear their muffled screaming. They wave signs above their heads, they wear homemade shirts (“Marry me, Scott McCall.” “Queen Lydia.” “Stilinski STEALinskis my heart!”). Stiles tries to keep from reading the professions of love to Isaac, but he does catch a few that make his heart clench.

They can’t see in the windows, but Stiles still feels like he’s in a glass tank at the aquarium when the car slows and hundreds of hands fall against the windows.

“You ready for this?” Lydia asks, pointing her chin toward Derek in the front seat. Stiles looks away from the flat palms against the window and sees that Derek looks totally out of his element.

“Not used to it anymore?” Stiles asks. Derek’s eyes shift to look at him in the rearview mirror. He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “You’ll be fine.”

It’s a wonder they’ve kept Derek a secret for the entire week. Management can still find new ways to impress. There have been paparazzi pictures of Lydia and Scott and Stiles all week, but not even so much as Derek’s left ear has been captured on film. He must have been in hiding, because everyone seemed to have known the second he landed in New York months ago. 

They drive into the security blockaded parking garage and the screaming outside the windows is suddenly muted. 

**

“This’ll be great for ratings,” Derek overhears the host telling their producer during the commercial break. They’d been hyping a big surprise from their musical guest the entire show and they were finally about to go on. 

Stiles is taptaptapping at his phone, one leg bouncing. Lydia spins her drumsticks in her fingers, nodding her head to her own mental click track. Scott is talking to a PA about their job, expressing genuine fascination. 

Derek watches as the host and producer head back out to the set. A stage manager gathers them up and herds them toward the door. “Back from commercial in five, four…” She holds her fingers up to show three, two, one… 

The studio audience cheers.

“Welcome back, viewers at home. You’re watching Marin Morrell Live. Next up we have Smokes for Harris. Are you excited?”

The studio audience cheers.

“Me too! Let’s get them out here, we have a lot to talk about.”

The stage manager gestures Scott, Stiles and Lydia out. Derek watches as they hug the host and take their seats, wave at the audience. Stiles who hadn’t spoken since the car was glowing out there, grinning and blowing kisses like the media darling he is. 

“Wait a second, weren’t you in New York like a minute ago?” Stiles asks once the audience settles down. “I feel like we saw you yesterday.”

“Don’t you ‘wait a second’ me. Isn’t there supposed to be a fourth member here? What’d you do with Isaac?”

The studio audience mutters amongst themselves. Derek’s stomach is doing somersaults.

“You know, Isaac is just taking a little break.”

The studio audience gasps.

“A break! Aren’t you leaving for Europe in a couple days?”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re bringing along a friend of ours so Isaac can rest up before we start writing this next album of ours, so don’t you worry.”

“A friend? Do I know him?”

“You might,” Scott says, looking at Lydia.

“Maybe,” Lydia says, nodding. “I think he’s here, actually? Do you guys want to meet him?”

The studio audience cheers.

“Well, let’s meet him then,” the host says.

The stage manager gestures for Derek to walk out onto the set.

The studio audience loses it.

**

Derek isn’t used to pretending anymore. On the show, they pretended they were all friends. They pretended that this reunion hadn’t been weird and tough. The band pretended that they were going to start writing an album soon, that Isaac was just on a break, that everything was fine and dandy. They pretended that Europe wasn’t going to be their farewell tour, Derek pretended he wasn’t watching uselessly as the band he helped found fell apart. Rehearsals had gone well, but it was like a constant business transaction. Nothing at all like dicking around in the Martin’s garage for hours after school or wasting entire weekends getting ready to record the first album. It wasn’t right.

They played a song and the host had semi-authentic tears in her eyes as she said that Smokes is one of her favorite bands and she’s so glad they decided to break the news that Derek would be touring with them on her show and that she feels honored to have interviewed them so many times throughout their career. When the cameras turned off and the show was over, they signed a few autographs on their way back to the car and the façade came down immediately.

The car ride feels somber, like mourners on their way to a funeral. Dry-eyed for now, numb, trying not to think of the eulogy that lies ahead.

Their driver takes them to the label where Allison is already waiting in the lobby. 

“Marin went well,” she says casually. “Keep it up for the next couple of hours of phone interviews and then we’re all good to go for Europe.”

She leads them to the elevator, flashes a security badge to the attendee standing guard and ushers them in. The last meeting Derek had with the label had been in a different building. A much less glamorous and shiny building. 

“I’m going to get coffee, I’ll be in in a sec,” Stiles says when they step off the elevator. He turns right while they turn left. 

The conference is a big room with a glass wall opposite of the floor to ceiling window, and a glass-like black table. Every surface seems to be reflective and he can’t escape his own worn face no matter where he looks.

He mutters something about coffee before he slips out of the room and heads back in the direction he’d seen Stiles go. He pokes his head in the first open door he finds and is relieved to have found a break room (with similarly reflective surfaces). Stiles is leaning against a counter while he drinks.

“Hey,” he says. “Cups.” He points to the cupboard over the sink. “The good K-cups they don’t want you to know about.” He points to the cupboard below the sink. 

“Thanks.”

Silence.

“So does Marin Morrell know you guys are headed to hiatus?” Derek asks to break it.

“Huh? I don’t think so.”

“She was just so sentimental at the end there…”

“Yeah, she does that.”

“Ah.”

“She’s a faker. I mean, she really does like us. But… entertainers, you know.” He smirks. Derek laughs a little. “She’s the one who broke the news that you were leaving before we wanted it to be known. She used to be a VJ or whatever for MTV.”

“Ah, her.”

“Yeah.”

Derek fiddles with the Keurig more than he really needs to. Stiles watches. 

“This is weird, isn’t it?” Derek asks.

“Kinda. I mean, I have that one at home so I’m more used to it but—“

“Not the Keurig. Everything.”

Stiles shrugs. 

“When you showed up at my house, you had a lot to say. We had a lot of stuff that we started talking about but never really talked about and now it’s like you don’t have anything to say after all. It’s like you don’t want me here really. I mean, I know you don’t. But—“

“I do. I do want you here.”

“Oh.”

“But now you get to watch us destroy ourselves. And I feel bad.”

Derek shakes his head. “Don’t bullshit me.”

Stiles looks at him with unsettling intensity. Derek feels naked. “I know this is hard for you,” he says softly.

“Huh?”

He pushes off from the counter and puts his now empty cup in the sink. “You ready?”

Derek takes his mug by the handle and follows him with a terse nod.

**  
October 17th.  
Oslo, Norway.

Stiles feels affection when he looks at Derek. It’s unfortunate but true. After a fifteen and a half hour flight (which Stiles slept through like a champion despite all of Boyd’s stern warnings), Derek looked worn and ruffled and Stiles, in his groggy state, wanted to bury his nose in his neck and breathe him in and fall back into a bed with him. And later, when Derek has slept and showered and made himself presentable, Stiles will still have that sleepy vision of him stuck in his head.

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his face as Oslo slips by outside his window.

“Congratulations, Stilinski, on being the only person in history who can get off a transcontinental, transatlantic flight with _too much_ sleep,” Boyd grumbles from the front seat of the car that’s taking them to their hotel.

Stiles flips him off.

Boyd has very specific beliefs about jetlag, scientifically tested and proven beliefs thanks to his many years on the road, but Stiles has a different set of beliefs. He may feel as though he has woken up from a coma now, but he’ll pass out the second he gets on the bus to Stockholm after the show. Jetlag, evaded. Mostly.

Lydia is asleep against his shoulder. Scott, Allison and Derek are in another car. The roadies have been in Oslo since the day before. Royales should be close to landing. Stiles just wants to get to the hotel so he can shower.

It’s somewhere between 7 and 8 at night in LA, and in Stiles’ head. They left around 4 in the morning on one day, and they arrived around 4 in the morning the next day. Twenty-four hours compressed into about fifteen. 

Twenty shows in thirty-one days, approximately four and a half days of combined bus travel, fourteen different countries… Stiles is lost in numbers when they pull up to the hotel that they will be spending next to no time in.

Someone knocks on his and Lydia’s door moments after they’ve set their carry-on luggage on the one queen sized bed in the room. Lydia is already curled up around her bag and deeply asleep. 

Stiles opens the door and sees that she has Boyd, Greenberg, Scott and Derek behind her. “Quick briefing before you all rest up,” she explains, pushing her way into the room. She sees Lydia and sighs. “Someone tell her what’s up later.”

Boyd reads the day’s schedule off his clipboard. Wake-up call and breakfast at 10 a.m. (“That’s the best I can do for you guys, I’m sorry,” he says when Scott nearly whimpers), a few sit down interviews with various members of the press and a few phone interviews. Then off to the venue for load-in, rehearsal, sound-check, and performance. Then they’ll head back to the hotel for showers and get right on to the bus to Stockholm (“No later than 1 a.m., I am so serious. No exceptions.”).

Boyd bids them a “kinda-goodnight” and everyone shuffles out. Lydia is none the wiser. 

**

“OSLOOOO!” Stiles yells into his mic. The audience cheers and screams back in truly deafening fashion. “God, you guys are gorgeous. Thank you for letting us visit your beautiful country again.” Stiles paces the stage while he talks.

Derek feels full to the brim as he looks out over the sea of people. 

“Are we excited?” Stiles asks the amorphous crowd.

They are.

“We have a good show for you tonight. How’d you like Royales?”

Screaming.

“That’s how we feel about them too. Lydia, I think these people want to dance. Do you guys want to dance? You seem like dancing folk to me.”

Lydia starts playing the beginning of their first song. 

“Peeerfect,” Stiles purrs into his mic. “Scotty, Derek, you think we can dance to this?”

Scott lifts his hands above his head, guitar hanging around his neck, and wiggles his hips in time to the beat for a few seconds. “Absolutely.”

“I’d dance to it,” Derek agrees. The pitch of the audience’s yelling goes up a few octaves and he grins. 

Half the set flies by at an alarming rate and Derek can’t believe he ever gave this up. He watches Stiles dance around Scott, kissing him on the cheek to rile up the crowd in the more suggestive songs, wrapping his arm around his neck so they can share a mic, teasing him as he parades around. 

They finish a song and the lights on stage flicker off and Greenberg and Marcus, nearly invisible in their all-black get-up, lead them off stage.

Stiles downs a bottle of water as Erica’s piano is rolled out onto the stage. He crushes the bottle in his fist and tosses it aside, jumps from foot to foot a few times and jogs back out on stage with Erica behind him. The show starts again, slower for a moment. From where Derek stands, Stiles is all profile with a golden outline, soft and still as he leans against the piano and croons his heart out.

“If I could I'd fold myself away like a card table, a concertina, or a Murphy bed, I would but I wasn’t made that way,” Stiles sings, the audience singing with him in that gentle melodious way they do. And Derek is struck.

**

So Scott had done a thing. Their second to last song was a song that Derek had written, a song that is performed by two singers (which had been Derek and Stiles but is now Scott and Stiles) and in the millisecond between Stiles introducing it and starting to play it, Scott stepped up to his mic.

“How happy would you guys be if Derek sang on this instead of me?” he had asked the audience. Derek turned his back to the remarkable screaming from the audience to hide his horrified expression. Lydia looked between Scott, Stiles and Derek uncertainly from up on her platform.

“Don’t cheer too loudly! You’ll hurt Scotty’s feelings!” Stiles said into the mic after the longest five seconds on record.

“Don’t you fucking dare pull this shit on me,” Jackson hissed at them through their earpieces. 

“Derek, c’mon, give the people what they want,” Scott urged, ignoring Jackson.

The fans had started chanting for it and Jackson let out a long-suffering sigh and gave them the go-ahead. 

So Derek did it. Reluctantly. So very reluctantly. Stiles betrayed nothing on stage. Didn’t spare Derek so much as a glance but didn’t let his charm slip either. 

And now, after a few slammed doors and an unsettling lack of yelling, Stiles left for the hotel with Boyd shortly after getting offstage.

Derek’s squeezed in the backseat with Lydia and Allison half an hour after their frontman’s hasty departure and no one has really spoken yet. Allison’s face is illuminated by her cell’s screen, making her disappointed eyebrows appear even more disappointed. Derek tries to discretely crane his neck to get a clear look from around Lydia to see who she’s so furiously texting and confirms his suspicions.

“So, is he…?” Derek asks.

“Livid? Yes,” she snaps.

Lydia looks at her screen too. “He isn’t even answering, don’t bother,” she says.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s turned his phone off by now,” Allison grumbles.

“You fucked up,” Lydia says, leaning forward to talk more directly to Scott who sits with his arms crossed in the front seat. He scoffs and looks out his window. “No, you listen to me. You don’t spring that shit on Jackson, you don’t spring that shit on Derek, and you don’t spring that shit on me. You don’t spring that shit on the techs, Greenberg, Boyd, or Allison and you definitely don’t fucking spring that shit on Stiles. I don’t know what the hell you think you were pulling, but you need to respect the people who are out there with you and for you and—“

“Listen, Lyds, I appreciate the lecture, but I seem to be the only one who has forgotten that we’re here for the fans and the fans loved it.”

“Yeah? So that means you can just—“

“Lydia, enough,” Allison sighs.

“No. If you’re not going to tell him, I will.”

“I plan on talking to him, don’t worry about it after everyone has cooled down,” Allison says.

“Whatever.”

“Everyone handled it, I don’t see the problem here,” Scott argues.

“Bullshit! You know exactly what the problem is! You did it to be an asshole and you got your point across! What you did was cruel!”

“I didn’t think I sounded that bad,” Derek says in attempt to lessen the tension.

“You sounded great, babe,” Lydia dismisses. “You don’t just throw anyone in this band under the bus like that, you hear me?”

Scott drops his gaze from the window to his lap. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him.”

“Then what were you trying to do? What were you trying to accomplish?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Scott says softly.

“Good luck with that,” Lydia snarls. She leans back and the car is shrouded in silence again.

**

Stiles feels his anger and adrenaline roaring through his cardiovascular system, mixing and mixing and mixing… He can’t focus on any sound but the ringing in his ears – a combination of the noise in the arena and his own blinding fury. He holds his phone too tight in his fist, unable to find the will to slip it back into his pocket after he turned it off to avoid Allison.

“Yo, Stilinski,” Boyd says softly beside him. Stiles feels paralyzed, his neck stiff as he stares straight forward. “Stilinski. Snap out of it.”

He lets his head roll in Boyd’s direction, but still keeps his jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry that happened. I’m going to have a stern talk with McCall later.”

“I’m sure you will,” Stiles mumbles, barely moving his mouth at all.

Boyd shakes his head. “I’m on your side here.”

“I don’t know why.”

Boyd groans in frustration. “Because even though you’ve been a little shit, you’re my little shit, you get that? I know that shit threw you off out there and it wasn’t fair to you.”

Stiles can almost feel touched by Boyd’s sentiment. “Or anyone else.”

“You don’t have to be a team player about this,” Boyd says in a meaningful way. Stiles feels the rolling boil in his stomach cool and the ringing in his ears starts descending in volume. 

“Thanks, man.”

“Don’t get used to me taking your side,” Boyd says, his usual toughness back at about half-power.

Stiles laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

**

Stiles doesn’t get out of the shower until he hears Lydia return. He gets dressed and listens to the sounds of her packing up the few items that somehow scattered themselves around the room in the few hours they were actually there. When he leaves the bathroom, he sees that she’s packed his things too.

“You’re a goddess,” Stiles says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“So are you,” Lydia says flippantly. “I’m going to shower.”

“Is the bus ready?”

“I think so.”

“Great. I’ll see you when we wake up in Stockholm.”

Lydia gives him a lopsided, sad smile from the doorway to the bathroom. “Alright, good night.”

Stiles hopes that he’ll be in bed before the rest of them finish their showers and head to the bus themselves, but of course Derek ends up in the elevator with him.

“You okay?” Derek asks.

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m sorry I—“

“I’m not mad at you, so stop it.”

The elevator bings when they reach the lobby and Stiles hopes this conversation is over.

“I know you aren’t, but… I still feel—“

“Don’t care what you feel.”

“Stiles, I’m trying to…” He trails off uncertainly.

“Trying to what?” Stiles asks, pushing the door that leads to the street open. Their bus sits not too far from the front of the hotel. It’s nearing Boyd’s strict 1 a.m. bus departure deadline and he wants to be asleep by then.

“Trying to be civil?”

“And you’re doing a fantastic job.”

“You were so mad earlier and I—“

“Listen, Derek, drop it,” Stiles barks at him. He pushes the bus door open and climbs the stairs with Derek right on his heels.

“Can you just stop for a second and listen?” Derek says, his voice raised in exasperation.

“Fine. Speak What do you want to say to me?”Stiles snaps, turning around to face him in the direct center of the front lounge. 

“You’re allowed to be mad that Scott did that to you and I’m sorry we had to go along with it. I know that hurt you.”

“The only thing that hurt was having to adjust the harmonies, alright? So you can really, truly let this one go. I don’t fucking care anymore, I just want to go to bed.”

“I know that’s not it. That song…”

“What about it, huh?”

“I wrote it about us.”

“It’s just a meaningless song,” Stiles lies. It’s a fan favorite, is what it is. Stiles would never perform it if he could avoid it…

“Say what you fucking mean for once!” Derek yells. Stiles is taken aback “It’s like you don’t think you deserve to be mad.”

“In case you haven’t really caught on to things yet, I’m better off if I keep my damn mouth shut.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one gives a fuck what I have to say—“

“You’re too busy feeling guilty about everything you’ve ever done to even see what you’re doing to fuck things up now. Quit shoe-gazing and realize that you are running this band into the ground. Say what you mean, stop running away and face it.”

Stiles stares at him in shock. He has a lot of brilliant retorts bubbling in him but none of them find their way to his tongue. So he goes with:

“You don’t know anything about this band. You left it. You officially gave up custody. You don’t get to tell me what to do—“ 

“Grow the fuck up, Stiles.”

“No, you listen to me. You’ve been around for a week. You missed two years. You don’t get to say shit to me about this.” The bus is starting to feel too small.

“It only took me a day to see how miserable everyone is—“ 

“I’m not responsible for their happiness!” Stiles argues, voice rising in pitch and volume.

“No, but you’re obligated to them. Your relationship with them is your responsibility—“

“Don’t you fucking dare talk to me about my relationship with them when you—“

“Don’t make this about me—“

“Why not? You have no place in this. This is none of your business. I am one fucking person and I can’t handle this. If Smokes is being run into the ground, I’m not the only one driving. I can’t be responsible for the status of this band by my goddamn self. I refuse to let you pin this on me, I refuse to let anyone pin this on me. I am fucking losing it and I have no one. My own lifelong best friend just fucked me over in front of thousands of people just to make a fucking point. Do you get that? I am on my own here, I can’t be alone in this band too so if we’re done, we’re done. Do you fucking get it? How’s that for saying what I goddamn mean for once? Now let me the fuck out of here.” He needs air, he needs air, he needs air… his heart is hammering in his chest and he can’t take a full breath… 

But Derek doesn’t move. He looks back at Stiles with a painfully open expression on his beautiful fucking face. His eyes look brighter under the bus’s lights. Stiles balls his fists, wants to punch something, wants to get off the bus, get away from Derek’s x-ray vision.

“Stiles,” Derek starts when Stiles tries to squeeze past him.

“No,” Stiles so eloquently interrupts. “We’re done here.”

Derek’s hand wraps around Stiles’ arm to stop him and he hates himself for feeling grounded by the touch. 

“Why do you think that?” he asks, sounding as if it hurts him to say.

“Think what?”

“That you don’t have anyone?”

Stiles scoffs and tries his best to level him with a smoldering, cruel smirk even though his eyes are shining with the humiliating onset of tears. “Don’t worry about it, honey,” he says, hoping he sounds positively acidic.

He tries to slip by Derek again but his hand just slides down and tightens around his wrist. “That doesn’t work on me.”

Stiles feels his face fall against his will. Feels the fire fade to embers. Feels the floor under his feet through the soles of his shoes…

“You have me,” Derek says, soft like a secret.

Stiles wants to kiss him. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t, but he does. He wants to grab him by the back of his neck and pull him in. 

He’s been staring at his face for too long, so he just nods and quickly casts his glance at the floor. Once again, he feels like he’s been tamed.

Someone pushes the door to the bus open and Stiles yanks his arm away from Derek just in time. Stiles slips through the first sliding door and into the bunk area before Scott and Lydia are even up the steps. He wipes furiously at his eyes and leans against the door to take a few deep and centering breaths. 

“Well, that sounded intense,” Erica says from her bunk. Her face is lit up by her laptop screen as she inspects him curiously.

“Fuck!” Stiles curses, jumping out of his skin. “Fuck, I had no idea you were here.”

“Obviously not.”

“Did you hear all of that?” he asks, lowering his voice and getting closer to her. The front lounge is filling up with sound and voices and they must be minutes from leaving.

“Yeah… Do you want to talk about it?”

The door from the front lounge slides open and Allison enters weighed down by luggage. 

“Hey,” she says when she sees them.

“Hey,” Stiles answers. Erica smiles and nods at her. When Allison turns her back to toss her stuff in her bunk, Erica makes eye contact with Stiles. 

“Later,” he says with a small nod.

“Later what?” Allison asks. Stiles dismisses her query with a shake of the head. “We’re leaving in five.”

Stiles scrambles up into his bunk and pulls his curtain shut before anyone else can come in. Instead of sleeping, he listens to the whoosh and whir of Norwegian asphalt giving way to Sweden underneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) is a song by The Beatles. (I used the parenthetical part because Norwegian Wood was way too obvious and also I had no idea that that was the full title of the song. You learn new things every day!)
> 
> Oslo's cover song is Oh My God, Whatever, Etc. by Ryan Adams.
> 
> You are all light and love and magic. Thanks for reading! <3


	11. By the Side of Amsterdam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any songs you listen to or associate with this fic, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

October 18th.  
Stockholm, Sweden.

Erica’s jet lag is written across her pretty face. Stiles feels as though they mirror each other. Her curls unruly and his hair sticking up. His eyes sunken, hers set in dark circles. Shoulders sloping in their tour hoodies, their hands are wrapped around identical white coffee mugs (though, Stiles notes, Erica takes a lot less sugar than Stiles does). He’s counting the seconds between his last word and Erica’s next…

36… 37… 38…

“So…” she says, sleep still evident in her voice.

They arrived in Stockholm just after sunrise. Stiles had slept terribly, Erica apparently had also slept terribly, and everyone else was still happily asleep on the bus parked behind the venue. They depended on Google Maps and what little sense of direction they had to find an open café within walking distance. If they hadn’t been the only ones awake, Stiles would have put this conversation off long enough for her to forget about it...

“So what?” Stiles asks, feeling the dull beginnings of a headache sprouting from his neck. There’s an ominous chill settled into his muscles and bones and Stiles is praying to every major god that he isn’t getting sick. He hopes it’s just a physiological response to the trauma he has outlined for her.

“You still love him?”

“No,” he answers too quickly.

“Okay.”

He knows she’s only going to allow him to get away with that for now. After everything Stiles had told her, that was her first question? Really? Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his ladder-back chair and glances around at the few other people there, all of them caught up in their morning newspapers and tugging at their business clothes.

He’d taken a lot of care not to talk too much about _feelings_. Just facts. Just “we met, we fucked around, we got in too deep, he left, we didn't talk, we needed a bassist, now he's meddling in our downward spiral.” Erica is a smart girl, though. There’s no hiding from smart girls.

“He obviously still cares about you,” Erica points out.

Stiles scoffs.

“He does. He wouldn’t be out on this tour if he didn’t care about you. He wouldn’t have even attempted that conversation if he didn’t care. He wouldn’t have said he was there for you if he didn’t care.”

“You hardly know him, don’t stand up for him.”

“I’m standing up for you, Stiles, there’s a difference,” she says with a surprising amount of vigor for the early hour. "You're the one feeling like a kicked puppy here, aren't you? So cut it out."

Stiles mumbles that he’s sorry, feeling as though that’s what his response should be, and stares into the depth of his coffee cup. He’s not sure if the heat on his cheeks is mild embarrassment or the start of a fever.

“I can’t do it again,” he nearly whispers without looking back up.

“Do what?”

“Depend on him.”

She’s silent. Stiles doesn’t have to look up to know that she's looking at him with pure, undiluted sympathy. He’d felt it enough from plenty of people, whether it’d been warranted or not.

“I was a huge fan of yours back in the day,” she admits just when Stiles feels like he’s drowning in his coffee cup. Stiles looks up and she has a sly smile on her face.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Aiden, Ethan and I saw you guys in Minneapolis on your first supporting tour. We didn’t even care about the band you were opening for, we just wanted to see you live. And you killed it that night. That was the best concert I’ve ever been to, even still. That’s the one I’m always going to remember.”

Stiles knows that he’s blushing for sure now as he stares out the window.

“When you called us and told us you wanted to meet us, we pretty much went into shock. We looked up to you guys a lot and then suddenly you were helping us get signed to your label and now we’re here together. If Aiden hadn’t convinced Lydia to take our demo last year and if she hadn't given it to you and if you hadn't actually listened to it, everything could have been different for us. Things happen for a reason. And if this is your last tour, which I really hope it isn’t, I’m really glad Derek is here for it. And if it isn't your last tour, then you guys are going to be learning a lot of important things from this one and Derek will be a part of that."

“Why? He doesn’t… he has no… I just…" he stammers, gesturing wildly. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "He walked away from us, you know?”

“I know, but the fans are so happy. I’m happy. I’m glad I got to meet one of the people who influenced me as an artist. I’m glad I get to perform with the original line up of one of my favorite bands. I'm happy that we get to give some kids out there the best show they've ever been to every single night."

Stiles gets it, he does. He just wishes he didn’t. He nods to express his understanding, but his mind is moving too fast for him to speak out loud. Fragments of sentences tumble through his head, saying things like “It feels right to have him here” and "I hate that it feels right to have him here" and “I wish I could pretend he never left” and “how am I supposed to move forward from this?” and “I want to devastate him”…

“Just think of that. Every time you think you made a mistake bringing him along or whatever, just remember that this is for your fans. You owe them the best concert they’ve ever been to. You can’t let someone like Derek have this much power over you.”

“You’re right,” he says. And she is. But he’s not totally sure how to target the problem anymore. Everything feels so scattered. He blames Derek, he blames Scott, he blames himself, himself, himself… He blames the label, management, the media culture… He can’t blame Derek’s alleged power over him for all of this. He doesn’t know that he can keep “doing it for the fans” when it feels like hell.

“And you’re not alone. And last night was amazing. I think you should try to do what Derek said.”

“What?”

“Say what you mean. Try to enjoy this. No one is going to let you lose it. You’ve got a big, loving, beautiful group of people around you. You’ve just forgotten how to rely on them. That’s your only mistake.”

“Hmm, so the student becomes the teacher?” Stiles asks, leaning back in his chair to take her in. She rolls her eyes.

**

“It’s like every time he tries to fix things, either Scott refuses to accept it or Stiles stresses himself out so much that he just regresses,” Lydia tells Derek from her stately position at the kitchenette’s table. “Because Stiles has definitely tried. And honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with Scott but last night was some new level of bullshit.”

“And you said this all started in the second half of the last tour?” Derek asks, finding it hard to believe. It feels like an older, darker conflict than that.

She shrugs. “I’m not a Scott and Stiles scholar, who knows."

“Doesn’t this all stress you out too?”

“Of course it does. But I’m going to Hawaii when we get back, so I’ll be just fine. I am more accustomed to being mad at them than they are to being mad at each other, anyway.”

“So you’re neutral?”

“Hm, I take sides on a case by case basis,” she corrects. "In this instance, Scott fucked up. He's an asshole for using you against Stiles, if that's even what his motivation was."

“What happened to my band?” Derek sighs.

“You left it.”

“Right, sorry. What happened to your band?”

“That was an answer, not a correction.”

Derek’s heart threatens to drop right out of his chest at that. He hides his shame by turning back to his quest to find a snack in the cupboard.

“Listen,” Lydia says eventually. “Things have changed a lot in the last two years. And we were all really heartbroken when you left, but Stiles…”

“I know.”

“No. Stiles took it the worst—“

“I know, I know he did.”

“Honey, you can say that you know all you want, but you didn’t have a front row ticket to it. Trust me when I say it was bad. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, I’m not trying to blame you…”

“Then what are you trying to say?” Derek sighs as he turns back to face her.

She shrugs. “I’m trying to explain why Stiles is being so difficult, I guess? Things are complicated. We’re all just little fuck-ups sometimes, you know? I really wish I understood what was wrong with us. I wish I could fix it. I have no clue what to do. I'm sorry you're here for this.”

Derek rubs a hand over his eyes as he groans. “I just feel like I’m fighting this impossible battle just to win you guys back and it’s not going to happen,” Derek confesses before he can convince himself not to.

Lydia stands up then and steps as close to Derek as she can without touching him. “You don’t have to win me back,” Lydia says, her voice low and gentle. “You dropped your whole life to help us out and that’s important to me. You boys are the brothers I never had, and you never needed to win me back.”

Her jaw is set and her shoulders are squared, but her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. He’d forgotten what it was like to be on the other side of Lydia Martin’s beautifully crafted wall. She’s wearing baggy sweatpants and her hair is piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun and she looks just like the girl who always yelled at him for forgetting to call her when he got home safe after her parties (“You and your stupid car could have been wrapped around a goddamn tree for all I fucking knew, Derek, and where the fuck would I be without you, huh?”).

Derek pulls her into a tight hug and kisses the top of her head.

**

Lydia’s doing the drum thing, Derek is doing the bass thing, Scott’s about to join in with the guitar thing and Stiles is trying to keep the rhythm of the chant and the clapping right and then he stops. The audience keeps going without him, but Stiles turns around, makes eye contact with Lydia and motions for her to cut it off.

She stills her cymbal, but the drum heads still ring. Scott and Derek stop playing a few beats later, looking toward him. He downs the rest of his bottle of beer, listening to the confused sounds of the audience at his back.

“Sorry,” Stiles says into the mic when he finally gathers himself enough to turn back. “But I fucking hate this song. Aren’t you all kind of sick of it?”

He hears the soft fuzz of static in his ear that always foretells Jackson over the earpiece.“What are you doing? On the first fucking song of the fucking set? Are we going to have shit like this happen every fucking night because you guys don’t pay me enough for this—“ Stiles pulls his earpieces out and lets them hang down the front of his shirt.

“Do people even like ‘Girl Worth Fighting For’?” Stiles asks again. The audience is deafening and he can’t quite read what the response is. “Stockholm, put your trust in me. I want this to be better for all of us, okay? So how about we shake it up.”

He stares out at the undulating mass of people, parts of their faces illuminated by the reflection from the stage lights. The further back his eyes stretch, the less he can make out of their upturned faces. This wall of screaming people. This unruly mob. These scrutinizing, expectation-filled creatures. He feels like a puppet with thousands and thousands of masters. He feels his breath caught inside him as his mind whirs and whirs, trying to think. He feels miniature. His hands fall into a natural position on his guitar.

“Band, join in when you’re ready.”

He starts strumming something familiar, feels his hands pulling to stretch the melody out, feels himself putting a swing into it. He has to depend on them this once, he has to trust them and he will even if it horrifies him. Please, he's begging them, please be with me on this one...

“Sing along if you know it,” he says into the mic a few measures before he starts singing. His heart is pounding in his chest, he's shaking... but Lydia has started to play something back there, Derek is picking out a sexy little bassline…

“Say my name, say my name,” Stiles starts to sing, hardly able to hear himself without the monitor in his ear. He can hardly hear the band. All he can hear is _sound_ and he’s singing out into it and he’s hoping against hope that he looks confident up there because he sure doesn’t feel it. He feels… separate. He feels distant. He keeps singing and playing by sheer providence alone because his own power is gone.

**

October 19th.  
Copenhagen, Denmark.

“Is Derek singing ‘Buoyant’ tonight, or is Scott?” Jackson asks them at sound check. Scott points to Derek. He’d started to sing it last night but the chanting for Derek got so loud that he had been forced to take over halfway through. Information travels fast. The only thing Stiles said to any of them after the show before going to bed was directed to Scott. Just one word: “Backfire.” Derek could practically hear the word clanging away like a church bell in Scott’s head even still.

“Another question. Are you guys planning on screwing me over at any point tonight?” Jackson asks in a very measured sort of way. “Or is telling me beforehand against your evil fucking plots?”

Everyone looks from Scott to Stiles and neither of them have a thing to say.

“I wouldn’t put up with that shit from another band,” Jackson starts up again.

“I don’t want to play ‘Girl’ tonight,” Stiles says loudly into the mic to get him to stop.

“Fine! Then don’t! We’ll take it off the setlist! See how that fucking works? Isn’t that so easy?”

“I don’t ever want to play it again,” Stiles adds.

“Fine. Anyone else have any setlist changes they want to make? Because in the future, Danny and I are making the stage go dark if you idiots rebel. Got it?”

They nod at him.

“And don’t fuck with the earpieces,” Jackson scolds before stalking back to his booth.

**

Stiles is asleep in the back lounge, curled up in a green fleece blanket on one of the couches. Derek can see his bare shoulder and the leg of his sweatpants hooked under his heel. He has a book held loosely in his hand, but Derek can’t see the title. It doesn’t matter.

Derek picks his laptop up off the floor and sneaks another glance. Stiles’ cheeks are no longer splotchy red and his hair is wet from the shower instead of with sweat, but he still looks just as small as he did on stage with his long fingers curled around the neck of a bottle of whiskey.

Whiskey makes his voice warmer. It made his duet with Erica feel smoky and dark. When he sang, Derek felt it pointed toward him like the shaking tip of a sword. But it didn’t mean anything.

Now the rock idol who sang “So I’ll wait for you, and I’ll burn…” is just a lost boy asleep on his expensive tour bus. And so what if he slipped a couple “he”s into the songs where “she”s should’ve been? It doesn’t matter.

At the end of ‘Buoyant,’ he had raised the bottle to the audience and purred into the mic: “To Derek Hale, everybody.” They cheered as he downed the rest of the bottle and turned to set it down on Lydia’s platform. He was drunk and flushed but functioning. Derek saw his hands shaking. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean a thing.

But his hands don’t shake when he sleeps and Derek, despite all his efforts and desires, cannot stop thinking about him or worrying about him. It doesn’t feel as unhealthy as Derek thought it would.

The book finally slips out of Stiles’ grip and his eyes open a sliver. Derek picks it up without thinking, glances at the cover and gently sets it down beside him.

“Der…” Stiles says. His voice sounds brutal. He can’t keep his eyes open.

Derek is touching Stiles’ cheek before he can even mentally process the action. His skin is smooth but hot to the touch. “Go back to sleep,” Derek says.

And with a sweet and familiar smile playing at his lips, he does. It doesn’t mean a thing, it doesn’t mean a thing…

He's reading _Big Sur_ for what has to be the fifteenth time. The same old copy. Bent and water-damanged and ancient. Derek is surprised it isn't falling apart. Derek knows that if he looked at the inside of the front cover, he'd see his own handwriting ("Derek Hale") with Stiles's beneath it ("loves Stiles Stilinski"). It doesn't matter, it doesn't mean a thing but it takes every ounce of effort Derek has left in his body to leave him.

**

October 20th.  
Amsterdam.

Stiles wakes up in an old, sparkling city after nine solid hours of sleep in a terribly uncomfortable position.

Allison pokes her head in the back lounge as Stiles lurches to his feet. “Hotel night! We’re checking in.”

“Alright,” Stiles croaks. She makes a disappointed mom face while Stiles tries to clear his throat.

“Vocal rest,” she says, pointing at him.

Stiles almost laughs because it’s not really like he’s been talking much anyway, but instead he sighs and nods. He can’t gather enough stray bits of energy together to fuel any unnecessary stubbornness. She gives him her patented Look of Concern before leaving.

Stiles gathers his blanket, book and phone and goes out to the bunks. He doesn’t say a word to anyone as he shoves his things into the carry-on bag he lugs back and forth from hotels and venues. Lydia hands him a shirt and watches him put it on with a raised eyebrow. She holds the back of her hand to Stiles’ forehead.

“You sick?” she asks him. “Or hungover?”

“He’s on vocal rest,” Allison re-iterates for the benefit of everyone present.

Lydia frowns sympathetically and touches Stiles’ cheek before dropping her hand.

**

_”Hello, Amsterdam. Do I sound extra sexy tonight?”_

Stiles laughs and laughs and his life is so glamorous, isn’t it? He can have anything he wants whenever he wants it. But he’s evolved. He knows better than to over-do it. The first time he had ever done coke was in Amsterdam. Derek had been clucking like a disapproving mother hen next to him, but his arm never left Stiles’ waist. Derek never left his side back then, never wanted to. Stiles always felt safe with him. Well, now he feels safe because he’s _stronger_.

Just one line. That’s how strong he is now. He doesn’t need anyone to babysit him.

The girl offers him another drink and practically slithers into his lap. Stiles wraps his free arm around her. She’s small and blonde and smiling. Stiles finishes the drink in one go while she watches him with hungry eyes. She’s offering herself up, and Stiles is definitely considering it. His lips are numb already.

The club is dark and impossibly loud. The whole gang is here, somewhere. Stiles doesn’t care.

_”I have to be frank with you guys. I’m not feeling so hot today, but I’m going to be trying my hardest for all of you out there.”_

He feels fantastic. His heart is pounding in his chest but other than that, he feels totally great. Like dancing. Or fucking. Or both.

“Is it working? You look blown,” she says, smiling dopily.

Stiles can’t figure out how to answer, so he just pulls the girl forward and kisses her. And that feels… fantastic.

_”Good night, Amsterdam! I hope you’re all going home tonight with someone special.”_

When he pulls away from her, he tries and tries to remember her name. He doesn’t want to ask, that’d be a total dick move. He should just ask her …He can’t remember what it even starts with, he can’t remember ever asking but he had to have… His heart is racing. Up, up and away. And then he feels claustrophobic. And he still can’t remember this girl’s name, but she’s leering at him like she wants something.

“Excuse me,” Stiles says, pushing her off of him. It’s getting hard to breathe, the club is so stuffy. Where’s the band? He’s in Amsterdam. Amsterdam, not San Francisco. Not Houston. Not New York. Not LA. Not Boston. He’s in another country. The Netherlands. Not the UK. Not Sweden. Not Belgium. He keeps telling himself where he is and where he isn’t, hoping that’ll settle his heart back down.

Stiles gets up and stumbles a little.

“Sam, where are you going?” the girl asks. Who the fuck is Sam?

His mind is a broken record: not a good high, not a good high, not a good… not a… not…

“Derek!” Stiles calls, trying to drown out the repetition flowing through his head. Everyone here just looks like a shadow. He feels his mouth moving, knows the name he’s saying over and over again, but feels distant from it…

“Stiles! Stiles, what’s wrong?”

He’s moving and there are hands on him. And then it’s dark and cold. His back hits a brick wall and there are hands on his face. He can still hear music, but it’s further away…

“Derek,” Stiles says once his eyes have adjusted. Stiles clutches at his own chest and fights for every breath.

“What’s wrong?”

**

Stiles had been given a Valium and an IV drip. He’s shivering still, but not as bad as before. Derek clings to Stiles’ hand just as much as Stiles clings to Derek’s. His skin looks so sallow under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Allison is going to find out and Allison can’t find out. No one can know,” Stiles mutters, his teeth clattering a little.

“She doesn’t have to know.”

“Trust me, she’ll find out.”

“And you’d rather be dead?”

“Yes.”

“Not funny.”

“Not trying to be.”

“I won’t tell her,” Derek says, squeezing his hand a little.

“I could have just waited this out and been fine.”

“Or you could have died.”

Stiles huffs in frustration, but Derek notices that he doesn’t let go of his hand. He wouldn't have died. But Derek still feels panic surging through him anyway. He tried to look bored as he answered texts from Lydia and Scott and Erica about his whereabouts -- "Sorry, went back to the hotel. Dead tired." -- even though he could hardly keep his hands still enough to type.

Stiles is discharged around 4 a.m. with strict instructions to rest and stay hydrated.

Derek helps Stiles back to his hotel room with a leaden weight swinging like a pendulum in his chest. Stiles hasn’t said a thing since the hospital. Whether that was out of exhaustion or dedication to the status quo or something else, Derek didn’t know. Stiles goes immediately to the bed and Derek sets about gathering Stiles’ things from around the room.

“Bus call is at 8. Just sleep until the last possible second, alright?” Derek says, not looking at him as he hears him rustling out of his clothes. Derek folds a couple shirts and loosely coils Stiles’ phone charger around his hand. He shoves everything into Stiles’ bag and zips it shut. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Stay with me, please,” Stiles pleads. Derek turns and is struck by how pale he looks sitting with his back against the dark wood of the headboard.

“Stiles…”

“I just don’t want to be alone,” he says, his hands curled into tight fists in his lap.

Derek’s will crumbles. He kicks off his shoes and sees to it that Stiles is under the covers before he circles around to the other side of the bed.

Stiles watches him as he settles in against the headboard. Derek can’t look away.

“What?” Derek asks.

“I missed you,” he says. The gravel in his throat, the sentiment dripping from every syllable, that look on his face, his bare chest peeking out above the blankets… it all reminds Derek of too many early morning bus calls or late nights in the back lounge.

“That’s the benzo talking,” Derek replies, breaking eye contact to focus on getting his phone out of his back pocket. “Go to sleep.”

“Hmm,” Stiles murmurs, his eyes slipping closed.

Derek thinks back on the hospital, his thoughts still moving too fast to sleep. 

_(”Do you have a history of drug use?” the doctor asked._

_Stiles scratched his face while nodding slowly. Derek had known that._

_The doctor hmmmmed as he wrote. “And have you ever received treatment for an overdose?”_

_Derek almost laughed at the question, but Stiles looked down at his lap and took a deep breath. “Yes.”_

_“What do you mean--?” Derek started, but the doctor gave him a sharp look._

_“August 2015. Xanax and Oxy.”_

_The doctor nodded and continued to ask questions, his professional detachment artistic in comparison to Derek’s inner meltdown.)_

He scrolls through the page of Google results on his phone, but finds nothing. There has to be something. A fan theory, a sentence in an article, a news report, something. He types in another string of words. “Smokes for Harris August 2015” yields a few articles about cancelled shows, which seems promising. He taps on the result from Billboard and reads:

> “Smokes for Harris has canceled the remaining week of the U.S. leg of their highly successful Gladiator Summer Tour due to a vocal injury suffered by lead singer Stiles Stilinski. A representative for the Californian rockers has said that Stilinski has been advised to undergo surgical treatment immediately to prevent irreversible damage.”

Derek drops his phone onto the bed beside him and leans his head back against the headboard. Stiles breathes softly beside him. Derek is void of all thought as he gets up to turn off all the lights in the room, but when he lays down next to Stiles he’s facing him. He reaches toward Stiles’ hand and curls his index finger around his little finger. He wants to anchor him, like a ship in a harbor, at least for tonight.

**

Stiles wakes up to Derek shifting on the mattress. He lifts his head and squints at him. In the half-light of the room, Stiles can just make out the S-curve of his shoulders, back, waist... Stiles rolls onto his side, tugs his arm free from the blankets and wraps it around him. With his nose tucked behind his ear, Stiles falls back asleep.

The next time he wakes up, he feels a hot sliver of Derek’s back against his stomach, the blankets kicked to the foot of the bed. Derek gently pulls away and gets up to address the pounding on the door.

“This bus is about to leave you—Derek?” Boyd says out in the hall.

“Give us a minute, alright?” he asks, voice gruff with sleep.

“Uh, yeah, sure…”

“It’s not… we didn’t…”

“Uh huh. He’s in there and functioning, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all I need to know. You two have 15 minutes to be on that bus.”

Derek nods and closes the door. Stiles almost laughs.

“What are you smiling about?” Derek asks. “Get in the shower, c’mon. Fifteen minutes, you heard him.” Derek crosses to the bedside table and gathers his things. He turns back when Stiles hasn’t made an effort to move. “Seriously, why are you smiling?”

“Déjà vu, I guess,” Stiles says, his throat feeling even rougher than he sounds.

Derek cringes. “Uh, don’t talk. Vocal rest. You sound terrible. Do you have your room key? No, you don’t, here.” He digs around in his pockets and hands him the keycard. “See you on the bus.”

Stiles doesn’t get out of bed until Derek has left. He dresses, splashes water on his face in the bathroom, gathers the few things he’s left in there, and grabs the bag Derek’s already packed for him. He stands in the center of the room and breathes. He can still feel the phantom heat of Derek’s body. He can still smell him. He looks wistfully at the bed for a second before he sees Derek’s phone half tucked under his pillow.

On the elevator ride down to the lobby, Stiles wonders if Derek still has the same security code as he always did on his phone. He does.

“Smokes for Harris has canceled the…” Stiles reads before quickly locking the screen again. Stiles can’t blame him for investigating. He’d have done the same thing. But still, Stiles goes through a loop of varying emotions. First, irritation. Second, embarrassment. Third, something tingly. Fourth, affection. Affection? God.

Stiles walks on to the bus thinking about how Derek stayed with him…

Derek’s sitting in the kitchenette with a mug of something on the table in front of him. Stiles hands him his phone, offers him a hopefully meaningful facial expression and turns to continue on his way. Derek catches him by the wrist.

“Your, um…” he says, fingers looped through his hospital bracelet. Stiles folds his thumb against his palm and slides out of it. Derek shoves it into his jacket pocket.

“Thanks—“

“Here,” he says, handing him the mug. “It’s tea.”

“Did you make me tea?” Stiles asks. Irritation, embarrassment, something tingly, affection…

“Whoa. Vocal rest,” Allison says, emerging from the bunks. “Should we get that looked at in Brussels?”

Stiles shakes his head and ducks to take a sip before she can see him smirking. The second the hot liquid touches his lips, he pulls a face. “Uugh, Throat Coat, really?”

“Vocal rest,” Derek commands with a stern shake of the head. “Drink it.”

Affection, affection, affection…

Allison steps forward and puts her hand against Stiles’ forehead. “Hmm… finish that and go back to bed.”

**

October 21st.  
Brussels, Belgium.

Stiles still feels like he’s sweating out the previous night. But he’s also just broken enough to feel truly liberated. He stands center stage, arms lifted over his head, audience bathing him in sonic approval… It’s a mutual thing, tonight. He has them in the palm of his hand, they have him in theirs. During an instrumental break, Stiles hops down from the stage to reach across the barricade. Those hands gripping his make him feel more human. These not-so-strange strangers. This wall of upturned faces.

Mr. Head-of-Security Marcus grabs him by the waist and hoists him up onto his shoulder and dumps him back on the edge of the stage before he can miss the next verse.

And when he shares the mic with Scott, he playfully kisses Scott’s cheek and means it. He hooks his arm around Derek’s neck after Buoyant and means it when asks the audience: “Didn’t we miss him?”

Erica grins from behind the piano while Stiles tries his best to seduce everyone. She struggles to keep the laughter from her voice as she sings when he leans against the piano and makes kissy faces at her. They’re smiling a little too much as they belt out “hang me out to dry, I’ve been wrung out too, too, too many times.” And everyone is dancing. Stiles means it when he tells the whole room how beautiful they are.

Tonight, he means all of it.

When he gets back to the bus, Allison thrusts a bag of cough drops and cold medicine against his chest. He hugs her and kisses her cheek and ruffles her hair and accepts the bag with a smile.

“You’re delirious,” she says, her smile more genuine than he’d seen it in awhile. “Good job tonight.”

“Are you proud of me?” he asks.

“We’ll see.”

The rest of the band boards the bus while Allison lectures him about taking better care of his voice. He’s nodding dutifully even as he looks up and locks eyes with Derek. He smiles a little and Stiles smiles back.

“Gargle aloe vera gel,” Erica says, her arm suddenly around him from behind and her chin on his shoulder, bringing him back to the lecture at hand.

“Gross!” Stiles exclaims.

“I promise you it’ll work. Aren’t you sick of vocal rest?”

Stiles looks to where his band is sitting in the front lounge, talking and laughing and throwing balled up napkins at each other. He nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "By the side of Amsterdam" is a lyric in Amsterdam by Imagine Dragons (because Europe is making me stretch for these chapter titles). 
> 
> Copenhagen's cover is a repeat of Lover, You Should Have Come Over. 
> 
> Hang Me Up to Dry is a Cold War Kids song. 
> 
> Shout-out to Teen Wolf canon for giving me some dark! Stiles to work with, btw. 
> 
> And GREAT BALLS OF FIRE, you guys really have been spoiling me with kudos and comments since the last chapter. Honestly, every comment means the world to me and I have a lot of feelings about you all. Thank you, you beautiful souls. <3
> 
> (ALSO, if you think I should tag something that I haven't tagged, please feel free to let me know! I want everyone properly warned and cared for!)


	12. London Beckoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we talk about how there was a typo in the title of this fic that had gone undetected by me since October? :X
> 
> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

Derek listens to Stiles’ rough breath and intermittent coughing all night. He slips into uneasy sleep a few times and every time he dreams of dark cobble stone and shining canals and a pale body in an alley before shaking himself awake.

He thinks back to Beacon Hills, which he hasn’t really done yet. He thinks back to his house, stationary and quiet. No wheels whirring under him, wider than a hallway and longer than a bus, a real kitchen, a real bathroom, one queen sized bed in a large master bedroom, boxes in the guest room. He thought back to its almost unendurable silence. He never really had any one over, not even family. They came over to see it and help him move in, but he mostly spent time away from it. In the city, at his parents’, at Laura’s. The silence at night used to keep him awake. He could hear the smallest sounds of the house settling, air rolling through the ducts, water running, the wood creaking…

When Stiles showed up on his porch, he brought a lot of noise with him. His voice, his tapping feet, drumming fingers and his breath and just… himself. His vibrancy. Or whatever. Totally messed with his prison cell vibe. Completely destroyed it. Set his head on fire with ideas and hopes and dreams and the memory of cheering crowds and live guitar and drums and music. And then he left and Derek couldn’t stop playing his bass unless it was to play his guitar or to blast a record through the house as he lived. He had forgotten how much he liked sound.

How much he loved music.

How much he loved the music he made.

How much he loved the music his friends had made.

How much he loved his friends… Missed them. Missed the siren call of the next city on the map. Missed empty arenas and full arenas and roadies and fans…

He’d stopped paying attention in class pretty much the second he decided to go with them to Europe. Started tapping his fingers against his notebooks, against the body of his laptop, against his leg, against his desk. The empty, wooden, hollow echo of a lecture hall would never do again. Never.

He’d thought that coming back to this would be unhealthy. Detrimental to his life plan. Detrimental to his recovering hurt feelings. He’d though that caring about Stiles after all that had happened would be bad for him. Maybe it was. But it still doesn’t _feel_ unhealthy. It didn’t feel unhealthy in Amsterdam, it didn’t feel unhealthy before that when the issues were less tangible, it still doesn’t feel unhealthy. He listens to Stiles’ breath above him and it doesn’t feel at all unhealthy to worry. It feels normal. It feels right, in a primal ‘protect your pack’ kind of way. Just like how he worries about the rest of them. And Isaac, wherever he is.

Stiles lets out a pitiful, chesty cough and Derek is unable to stop himself from sliding out of his bunk. When he lands on his feet, he sees Allison slipping out of her bunk across the way.

“Sorry,” she apologizes on Stiles’ behalf, as if she needs to, as if she’s a mother with a sick child out in public getting dirty looks from everyone. “I’d get him to move to the back lounge but we’ll be in London soon and… I don’t want to wake him up if he’s actually asleep, you know?”

“It’s fine. Maybe he should have tried Erica’s aloe vera thing.”

Allison scoffs. “Maybe.”

She quietly pulls aside his curtain and stretches to look up at him. His window shade is open, bathing him in the slow strobe of streetlights passing by. He’s asleep on his back with his head turned toward the wall. Allison reaches in slowly and gently touches his neck with the top of her fingers.

“Is he hot?” Derek asks.

She shakes her head and retreats, pulls the curtain closed, and leans heavily against the opposite wall of bunks. She seems at least a little relieved.

“You okay?”

“I’m just hoping it’s not contagious. Whatever it is.” Her voice quivers, though, and she keeps her hand close to her face.

“C’mon,” Derek says softly, taking her by the elbow and leading her into the front lounge.

They end up sitting on the floor with a bottle of wine. Because why not. Because rock and roll. Because Allison was feeling weepy at 4 a.m. and Derek wasn’t going to sleep anyway.

“I’m just stressed out,” she says in a clinical way, as if repeating something a therapist told her. “I’m trying to play bad cop and good cop at the same time, but I don’t know if that’s even helping anyone. I just want to… take a trip back to how it used to be so I could get away with hugging them all until they feel better.”

“Why can’t you do that? Not that it would work, but…?”

“Because,” she sighs. “I’m a professional and I need to be taken seriously.”

“We always took you seriously.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

She snorts. “Well my dad didn’t.”

“Who cares?”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“I mean, he’s not out here with us. Who cares.”

“He said the friendship I had with my band made me seem like I didn’t take their careers seriously.”

Derek’s turn to snort. “Your dad is scary, not everyone wants a scary manager.”

“Am I a scary manager?”

“Sometimes. When it counts.”

“Good, I guess.” She looks so sad as she takes another drink.

“What is it that you want, and how can we make it happen?” he asks, preferring a happy Allison.

She rolls her eyes at him. “I want a massage and a day off and a healthy lead singer and a harmonious band and for them to either re-sign or negotiate with another label, whatever, as long as they just do something… and I want a break from touring, oh god. Oh god how I want a break from touring. And I want to be able to focus more on Royales until I’m ready to juggle both of them. Maybe while these assholes work on their next album so I don’t have focus on them until they’re finished with that. But I think the day off coming up will be enough.”

Derek nods for awhile, amazed at the speed of the response. “Well. I’m sure there’s somewhere in London where you can get a decent massage.”

She laughs. She’s all dimples when she laughs. “Okay, I’ll admit it,” she says once she’s stopped. “I missed having you around.”

He’s surprised at how much that means to him. It’s not like she’s been hostile. No, she’s been perfectly nice – business-like and stern, sure, but still nice. The Allison he had known was soft and strong, sweet and deadly. She just seemed like a more cautious, evolved version of that.

But being missed by Allison? After leaving her and everyone else high and dry? After whatever they had gone through? That was something to hold on to.

“Hey,” he says softly when her smile changes from genuine to “I can’t believe I’m about to cry.” He nudges her knee with his foot and slides closer across the floor toward her.

She looks up and bites her lip and fans herself.

“Allison. I’m going to see what I can do.” It’s a promise. Not a very specific one, but a necessary one. He doesn’t know how he’s even going to see it through, but he will.

“About what?” she asks, voice shaking.

“About your band.”

**

Stiles is midway through an answer about his and Erica’s cover songs when Derek shifts uncomfortably behind him, his knee brushing the back of Stiles’ arm. He wants to reach back and grab Derek the way Derek used to grab Stiles when he used to get antsy during interviews. He quells the urge.

His throat aches and his lungs are tired, but he’s had so much tea since waking up. His voice is quieter than normal but it’s smooth and low. He should be on vocal rest, even he knows that. He keeps rubbing his throat as he talks as if that’ll help anything. Maybe he shouldn’t have refused Erica’s weird concoction. Maybe he should ask her to make it for him again. Later. Like, way later.

“We can’t ignore your recent personnel switch, even though I’m sure you’re sick of talking about it,” the interviewer says after Stiles is done answering. “But Derek! I think you guys have successfully put the rumors of your unhappy departure to rest by coming back. How has it been being reunited?”

“It’s been a little overwhelming,” Derek answers, sounding only about half as uncomfortable as he probably is. “I’m not used to the whirlwind of it anymore.”

“I can imagine. You kept yourself off the radar after you left. What have you been up to the last couple of years?”

“I finished up my Bachelors and started law school.”

Stiles keeps his face as neutral as possible. Stiles keeps his breath as even as possible.

“So are you just taking a break to help out your old friends, or…?” she asks, mouth screwing up to fight down a hopeful smile. Stiles wants to laugh at her – wants to tell her there’s no point in hoping he’ll stay. He wants to tell her that technically, if they should continue forth as a band, Isaac is still under contract. But he keeps his face blank and keeps his mouth shut. A little voice vacation, an honesty sabbatical.

“Oh, um… I guess I’m just taking a break…”

“We really didn’t even expect him to drop his life to come help us out when we asked,” Scott cuts in to save him. Sparkle for the camera, Scott. “But it has been really great having him back on the road with us. We’ve all been best friends for a long time and it just feels like home having him back even if it is just for this tour.”

“Aww,” the interviewer coos. “Things like that make us fans very happy to hear.”

Things like that make the knife between Stiles’ shoulder blades twist.

**

“Derek, what’s it like playing with these guys again?” the host asks.

He’s just sweating under the studio lights, his chest feels tight. There’s a mixed audience of avidly interested people and politely attentive but uninterested people staring at him from the risers beyond the cameras. They’re staring at him, and Stiles is staring at him from the other side of Scott, and the host is staring at him from beyond Stiles.

“It’s really great. It’s nice to revisit the songs we all wrote together and it’s really cool to play the ones they went on to write without me. I get to see how much they’ve grown as musicians and it’s been really fun.” Say really again, Derek. “There’s nothing like live shows, either.”

“Especially not in law school, I’d imagine.”

“Yeah,” Derek says with a laugh that he hopes doesn’t sound too uneasy. He can’t do the time zone conversion in his head, but he imagines that he’d be in his jurisprudence class back home. The thought makes him want to yell.

“Okay, and I hate to do this to you fine gentlemen and lovely lady, because I know you got plenty of this in the past. But bear with me, let’s have a throwback moment for a bit,” the host says, leaning forward with a devilish gleam.

“Uh oh,” Stiles says, laughing. Derek looks toward him and sees the smallest hint of nervous anticipation glinting beneath his careful façade. He hides his mouth behind his fist and tries to discretely clear his throat.

“We have a few Tweets here from the first week of your European romp, let’s take a look.”

They turn toward a screen at the host’s gesturing.

“Twitter user @SmokesForSterek says—“

“Nooo,” Stiles groans through uneasy laughing.

“She says, ‘Judging by tonight, they’ll be kissing by the end of the tour.’ Posted the 17th, so you were in Oslo? What were you blokes up to, huh?”

“Oh god.” Stiles is blushing, slumped down in his chair and hiding his face in his shirt.

“Get used to it, Smokes!”

“How many souls did you have to sell to get that username?” Lydia asks, nodding toward the screen, impressed.

“That’s a fair question,” the host agrees. “Okay, so @LenaWorthFightingFor simply wrote: ‘The sexual tension on this stage right now Hashtag SterekLives.’ That’ll be from Stockholm. Now I must say, I’m very interested in the show tonight. Apparently it’ll be a saucy affair.”

“Christ,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Alright, one more. This one is from Amsterdam. And this one I find very interesting. And I want to discuss it. @Stilinskigasm has this to say: ‘Every time they look at each other, it’s like their hearts are breaking all over again.’ Now… I thought we were in for a sexy good romp, but apparently…”

Derek doesn’t hear the rest of the host’s comment. He’s too busy trying to look like he’s amused. He tries not to look at Stiles, but he catches a glimpse of a wooden smile. Lydia comforts him with a nudge.

“Our fans are great. They’re just a little prone to overanalyzing. But I promise there’s no heartbreak here,” Derek hears Stiles attempting to explain.

“Now, were you okay in Amsterdam? I’m concerned.”

“I have a sore throat, but aside from that Amsterdam was perfect.”

Derek has the image of a too-pale, sweating Stiles grasping frantically for air outside of a club burned into his mind, but perfect. Sure.

“You do sound a little rough. How are you feeling?”

“Eh, I’m hanging in there.”

“Drinking tea and such?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, though, let’s talk about Stockholm. Stiles, you stopped the band at the top of ‘Girl Worth Fighting For’ and said you hated it. You haven’t played it since?”

“No, it’s off the set list.”

“That’s your mega-hit, mate! How has the response been?”

“Uh, it’s been okay? I think. I haven’t gotten any death threats or anything. I’m hoping the fans are just as sick of hearing it as we are of playing it.”

“Hmmmm,” the host murmurs, looking at him suspiciously. “Well, okay. Now Derek, how were you in Amsterdam?”

“I was just fine.”

“Alright, it’s settled, then! All of your hearts are intact.”

“Well, I’m a little heartbroken. Not one of those Tweets suggested that me and Stiles were getting down after the show,” Scott interjected. Stiles genuinely laughed at that. Derek couldn’t help but smile either.

“Oh there were plenty of those too, Scott, don’t you worry.”

**

Derek tries not to watch Stiles as he totters around. He’s all long legs and disheveled hair and one-too-many-drinks as he swings his arm around one of their friends. They’d been invited out after the show by some of the people they’d toured with before. Old friends, beautiful British rockers, the London musical “elite” or whatever… Derek had never been completely able to keep up with them or their accents or their drinking or their style, but they were fun. Stiles can keep up with them though. They’re all laughing and some people are looking at him in wonder, whispering behind their hands to their friends. But no one approaches.

Derek used to ask him if he ever realized that people constantly recognize him. He used to ask him if he realized that even the people who didn’t recognize him still followed him with their eyes. He used to ask him if he realized how magnetic he was. Stiles used to brush off the questions with a wave of his hand and half-mumbled arguments. Derek can’t tell if he’s more aware of it now or not. He acts the same way. But he has to know. There’s no way he doesn’t. There was a massive Ray-Ban advertisement on the side of a building in Hollywood with his face on it. Stiles’ eyes didn’t so much as flick toward it as they drove past.

When Stiles finally spins into Derek’s atmosphere, Derek tells him that he doesn’t want him to leave the group tonight. He pulls a hospital bracelet out of his jacket pocket and wiggles it at him before hiding it away again. Leverage. He just wants him to be careful and safe and…

Stiles smirks at him and moves dangerously close. “Don’t you worry about me,” he says, something in his eyes making Derek shiver. And then he curls a finger into Derek’s belt loop, tugs him even closer… and then walks away. When the fog clears from Derek’s brain, he notes that he sounds way too hoarse to be drinking and smoking.

He wants to follow him, to tell him that and to keep him from floating away. He wants to grab him by the hips and shove him against a wall. He has a feeling Stiles wants that too. And he has no idea what to do with that dangerous little flame of a thought.

It’d seemed as though Stiles really took what the fans had to say to heart. If the fans saw sexual tension, Stiles was going to make it obvious for them. And he had. He’d kissed Scott on the cheek just a little too long, dragged his nose across his jaw line, grabbed his hips… Sang some of the more suggestive lyrics while looking at Derek… and the cover song of the night, well… It hadn’t painted the most romantic picture of sex, but it had still called out to Derek – like a howl in the night, just beyond the ring of a campfire, yearning and dark… hungry. (“Love songs are drug songs, we can get together if you understand me,” he’d crooned, hips moving, ass against the piano… fuck.)

Scott suddenly appears at Derek’s side and throws an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, get some air with me?” he says over the music. Stiles is sitting with one of the girls in his lap, hand on her thigh, smiling into her neck and Derek wants out. Derek nods and follows him to the alley.

Scott leans against the cruddy brick. “Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Where’d you really go in Amsterdam?”

Derek swears his heart stops. “Back to the hotel.”

“Boyd asked me to go wake you up at bus call and you weren’t in your room, man.”

“I um…”

“You were with him, huh?” he asks.

“I uh…”

“Because when I told Boyd you weren’t in your room, he said not to worry about it, he’d found you. You and Stiles were the only ones not on the bus, he only had time to go to one room…”

Derek can’t tell if he’s mad or not. He can’t foresee the outcome of this conversation. Scott has that tight-jawed look of determination of his on in full effect. This could go anywhere.

“I was with him.” Only the truth will stop this inquisition from going deeper, Derek knows that. Scott is too smart, too finely tuned to minute social cues and nervous tics and emotional shifts…

“So you left us and went back to the hotel with Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Scott takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “My room was next to his. I heard when he came back. It was after 4, you guys left around 1. So where’d you go?”

“Does it matter?” Derek asks, no… pleads. He just wants him to drop it.

“He’s my best friend, you two have history, you bet it matters.”

“You haven’t been treating him like a best friend,” Derek attempts. Flash, bang, distraction. Go for the throat, Derek…

“I know.” He sounds angry and guilty.

“What’s even going on with you two?” Derek asks, thankful that their wounded friendship is a bigger concern to Scott than the mystery of Amsterdam.

“I shut him out, he shut me out, and now we’ve been at this for too long just to play it off—“

“Doesn’t help that you’re fucking him over in front of sold out arenas—“

“I was testing the waters and it blew up in my face, alright?”

“Testing for what, exactly?”

“Chemistry. Something to maybe put some spark back into performing. I didn’t mean to piss him off. He’s the one who asked you to come back, I didn’t think that’d make him so angry.”

“You should’ve known.”

“You’re right. And you haven’t answered my question, where’d you guys go?”

“Why do you want to know? What are you worried about?”

Scott sighed and pushed off from the wall. “You’re protecting him from something. And I don’t know if you understand how serious this is. I’m pretty sure you don’t. If he’s… in trouble, I want to know about it. I need to know about it. I won’t tell Boyd or Allison or Lydia or anyone else, but I need to know.”

“He’s not in trouble.” Derek’s not sure if he believes himself.

Scott squints at him, trying to decode something. “Derek, I found him half-dead in his hotel room about a year ago.” He says it like he’s saying something he shouldn’t, like he expects Derek to react with surprise.

But Derek just sighs, feeling the weight of regret sinking him deeper. “I don’t think he’d want you to tell me that.”

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of this. And I know for sure that he doesn’t,” Scott says once his own mild surprise passes. There’s a “He told you?” hanging, unspoken, between them.

“Maybe you should talk to him about this, not me.”

Scott laughs cynically, shaking his head. “He’s not going to talk to me.”

“Well, what do you want me to do? It’s not like he trusts me, he barely likes me—“

“Then what the hell were you doing with him in Amsterdam?”

Derek feels backed into a corner. He opens his mouth to stutter out some answer before he can think of one, but the door suddenly bangs open. A noisy group of people pour out of the bar, streaming between them toward the street. Scott clenches his jaw and watches them warily.

“Oy,” one particularly drunk man yells at Scott, shoving him. “Couple uh bints in the alley, move out of the damn way…”

The door swings open again and Stiles and Lydia appear, Stiles with a cigarette already hanging from his mouth.

“Ben, stop, c’mon,” one of the man’s friends groans, grabbing him by the shoulder to lead him off.

“Get off,” he slurs, rounding back on Scott. “What the fuck are you looking at, huh?”

“Fuck off,” Scott says, a threat in his voice.

“C’mon, we’re going,” someone in the group says.

“Pretty boys,” he slurs disdainfully as he shoves Scott’s shoulder. Derek grabs Scott’s wrist to try to keep him from hitting back.

“You better go, buddy,” Stiles says, suddenly at their side.

The guy ignores him and moves closer to Scott and sizes him up. In a sudden burst of movement, he shoves Scott as hard as he can. Derek surges forward to grab him but Stiles shoulders him out of the way and puts himself between them.

The guy reels back for a punch but Stiles sees it and inexpertly (but effectively) slams his fist into the guy’s face. With an involuntary “oof” and an ominous cracking sound, he crumbles to the ground. For a second, the alley rings with nothing but his yelling as he clutches his face.

“Get him the fuck out of here,” Derek growls before anyone can decide to retaliate. A girl rushes forward and drags her floored friend toward the group. They disappear down the sidewalk, some laughing at their friends’ expense as they go.

Stiles is shaking with adrenaline, both hands hanging at his side. “Are they gone?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Derek answers, eying him cautiously.

“Good.” He cradles his bleeding fist to his chest and curses. “FUCK, that hurt, god damn.”

“Now I know for a fact the Sheriff taught you how to punch better than that,” Scott kids through his nervous tremor.

“Yeah, fuck you, Scotty. God fucking dammit.”

“What a hero,” Lydia teases.

“Dude, you just got into a bar fight!”

“Scotty, fuck you.”

“You just did the most hoodrat thing I’ve ever seen you do,” Scott continues, grinning.

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, and I did it for you, asshole,” Stiles snarls at Scott.

“Let me see your hand,” Scott says, reaching out for it. Despite the situation, he’s wearing a very affectionate smile.

“Get your mom on the phone, I don’t want your inexpert medical advice. Fuck, Scott, are you fucking kidding me with this shit? Leave it to you to get in the lamest bar altercation of all fucking time, and Derek what the fuck were you doing just hanging out here watching that go down?”

“That hand better not be broken,” Lydia calls out to him. “Or you’re fired.”

“It’s my strumming hand, we’ll be fine!”

**

Scott pours Stiles a shot of tequila and put the glass in Stiles’ good hand. He hands the bottle off to Derek who takes a swig before handing it to Lydia as they watch from Stiles’ bed.

A long, tired sigh emits from Scott’s phone. “What’d you idiots do now?” Melissa McCall asks. She’d been suspicious of their pleasantries from the second she answered. Stiles laughs a little, feeling transported to showing up on Melissa’s doorstep with scraped knees and the occasional minor concussion.

“Stiles defended my honor,” Scott tells her proudly, taking Stiles’ injured hand with both of his uninjured hands. Stiles knocks back the shot and shudders as it slides heavily down his throat.

“Quit grinning,” she scolds. (Scott’s smile fades momentarily as he looks in wonder toward the end table where his phone resides. He turns back to Stiles with his smile restored.) “Stiles, how’re you feeling?”

“Tipsy.” Their friends had decided to buy Stiles a lot of shots for his heroic actions. Stiles had handed most of them off, but Scott’s argument that tequila might act as a good anesthetic had been very compelling.

“Great. How does your hand feel?”

“Hurtsy,” Stiles answers, giggling. Scott bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“Is that so? Scott, is his hand swollen?”

“Yep.”

“Bruising?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Did he split his knuckle?”

“Yeah.”

“How badly?”

“Eh, not too bad.”

“Did you wash it?”

“Duh, mom.”

“Stiles, can you make a fist?”

Stiles tries and can mostly manage it through the pain. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Alright, Scott, carefully check the affected area for breaks. Tell me anything that doesn’t feel quite right. Pay close attention to his knuckles and metacarpals.”

Scott’s hands are warm and gentle around Stiles’ fingers as he inspects. Stiles wants to take a nap. The alcohol in his system is…slowing…him…down.

He’s thinking back to falling asleep in Scott’s bed, age 6, age 12, age 15, age 17, age 22. They’re only 23 now, so that wasn’t that long ago. They used to be friends. Stiles used to come home from his shitty post-high school retail job to find Scott asleep in his bed. He used to come over for breakfast with Melissa before Scott had even woken up. They used to be friends. Scott’s skin has always felt like family. His hands, his arms. When they were 10 years old, they got in their first and only physical fight. Stiles’ mom was sick, Stiles was a mess, Scott was at the hospital with him every day. Melissa found them in the hall and sent them away – “Go be normal kids, go on.” So they’d been out in the McCall front yard playing lacrosse and Scott had purposefully tripped him and laughed and Stiles lost it. He hit him and hit him and hit him and cried the whole time. Scott eventually grabbed him by the wrists and just held them until Stiles stopped fighting against him. Collapsed in tears. Scott just hugged him. Scott never told anyone. Scott took every single hit and ended up hugging him. That’s the kind of friend Scott McCall was. They used to be friends.

His eyes are drooping closed until Scott squeezes the split first knuckle of his ring finger, sending a jolt of pain through his whole body. Scott relays the information to his mother while Stiles clenches his jaw, fighting back tears that aren’t really related to the pain. They used to be friends.

“I’m sorry, man, just hold on,” Scott says softly as he continues down his hand. “Nothing unusual,” he reports loud enough for the phone to pick up.

“Okay, it’s probably just bruised. Ice it, wrap it and get it looked at as soon as possible. Derek and Lydia, keep an eye on those two for me.”

“Sure thing, Mama McCall,” Lydia says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No more bar fights, I don’t care whose honor is on the line,” she scolds all of them. “You’re adults. Famous adults. Be responsible.”

After thanking her and hanging up, Scott pours Stiles another shot and shoves it into his good hand. He takes a swig for himself and hands it back to Derek. Stiles must still look a little weepy after he throws back the shot because Scott pulls him into a hug. Maybe they’re still friends.

**

October 23rd.  
London, UK.

Allison fumes at all of them from the center of the room, her hands on her hips. They all look up at her from the foot of Stiles’ bed, trying their best to look sweet and innocent. Stiles has a makeshift pencil-and-sock splint on his right hand, which Allison refuses to so much as glance at. He’d thought it was a fairly good piece of craftsmanship.

Stiles felt that between Lydia and Melissa, all the disappointed mothering had been taken care of for Allison but apparently she didn’t agree.

“Well, have fun doing a full day of press like that. We’ll get an x-ray done later.”

“Alright,” Stiles says with a shrug, trying to fight down a laugh. Scott punches his side to keep him from losing it.

“I hope you’re really pleased with yourselves. This could have been picked up by tabloids.”

“Too bad it wasn’t,” Scott sighs.

“I can’t… I can’t believe you idiots. You’re full grown adults—“

“It was in defense, Allison, it’s not like we started it,” Derek argued.

“He called us bints! I don’t even know what that means, but I know it’s not nice,” Scott exclaims.

Lydia covers her face with one hand and shakes with silent laughter.

“You don’t know what that means?” Allison asks, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Nope!” Scott grins at her. “But when we told everyone what happened, they said we acted appropriately.”

Allison rubs her temple. “Of course they did… Don’t know what a word means, but you’ll punch a person for it?” she mumbles, starting to rub her whole face.

“So, what does it mean exactly?” Stiles asks.

“Google it, assholes,” Allison hisses at them. Stiles is finding it harder and harder not to giggle.

“It’s not nice though, right?” Scott argues.

“It sure isn’t.”

“Maybe I don’t want to know what it means, then. Maybe I’ll get even madder,” Scott decides.

They all laugh until Allison’s eyes widen with irritation. “Wow, I’m so glad you’re all getting along, this is sooo much easier for me. Really, thanks, guys. I’m glad this _bar fight_ brought you together.”

“You can’t really call it a bar fight,” Stiles points out.

“If you can’t play guitar because of this, you won’t be laughing anymore.”

Stiles shrugs. “You have to admit, Allison, this is some truly punk rock shit right here.”

“He’s right,” Scott agrees, nodding.

Lydia even nods.

Allison looks to Derek. “You think this is funny too?”

“I uh…”

“You’re training to be a lawyer but you think little scuffles on the street in a foreign country are funny?”

“I mean…”

“None of this is funny. I’m making an appointment for you to get your hand looked at and I’m disappointed in all of you. Now let’s order breakfast.”

**

Allison sits against the headboard, half under the blankets, as she pulls apart her bagel. Lydia’s drinking coffee beside her, flipping through a magazine as Allison reads over her shoulder.

Stiles had argued that it was technically his bed, but a cold look from Allison had shut him up. He is curled up in an armchair, right hand against his chest as he awkwardly eats with his left. Scott’s leaning against his chair and they’re talking. Actually talking. Not about anything serious, but still.

And maybe that’s why Derek isn’t too worried about the TV performance later or the photo shoot or the interviews…

Stiles’ hotel room is cozier than the bus. Cozier than his own empty hotel room a few doors away. Cozier than a lecture hall. Cozier than his new house back in Beacon Hills. For the first time since landing in LA, it seems as though the ground isn’t actually crumbling beneath them. The ground used to always feel solid underneath their feet. Their careers had always been haunted by uncertainty and they were never in the same state for more than a couple days, but things had been secure and static anyway. He remembers when Allison kept getting mistaken for his girlfriend and not his manager. He remembers how Lydia used to give up on makeup and done-up hair halfway through tour. He can see the Scott who used to cackle as he skateboarded away from Boyd after sound checks and the Stiles who used to steal the batteries from Greenberg’s flashlights and wireless headset before the venues opened their doors.

Derek’s half asleep on the floor, feeling warm and positive, when someone knocks. Allison rolls out of bed, opens the door and lets Boyd in.

“Where was my invite?” he asks, gesturing toward everyone. His eyes land on Stiles. “And what happened to your hand?”

Allison waves dismissively at the second question. “Have you eaten?” she asks, gesturing to the remaining room service spread.

“We had a crew breakfast this morning. The car will be here soon.” He moves closer to Stiles to look at his hand. “Is that a sock?”

**

“So, Stiles, what happened here?” their host asks, pointing with his question cards.

“Well,” Stiles says, proudly holding his arm out in front of him. Boyd had done away with his makeshift splint and properly wrapped it up. In a show of astounding blind faith, Allison had just sighed and told him to say whatever he wanted as long as he didn’t go too deep into the details. “I had to defend Scott’s honor from a bunch of hoodlums.”

Scott nods beside him. “He did. It was really sexy.”

“It wasn’t that sexy,” Lydia disagrees.

“How many hoodlums are we talking?” the host asks.

“At least fifteen,” Derek answers, sounding at ease. Stiles can’t help but look at him in surprise. Derek smiles at him and Stiles smiles back.

**

“So is it broken?” Scott asks when Stiles and Allison finally get back from the doctor.

“Nope. How was dinner?”

“It was good, we got you guys something to go.”

“You are the sunshines of my life,” Stiles moans in ecstasy, practically floating to the take out boxes Scott pointed toward.

“He still needs to be careful,” Allison says. She kicks her heels off and throws her hair up into a bun as she goes toward the food herself. “So what are we doing tonight?”

Allison had insisted that the doctors check his throat too, even though Stiles insisted it was fine. The diagnosis had been “mild vocal strain” and Stiles was surprised that Allison didn’t translate the doctor’s advice to drink tea and warm up better before shows as “throw him in the vocal rest dungeon.” Along with the bags under her eyes and the somewhat haunted look about her, he took it as a sign of her exhaustion.

“We?” Lydia asks, voice rising as her face splits in a radiant grin. “As in you want to come?”

“Am I allowed?”

“Yes!” Lydia springs up from her spot on Stiles’ bed and kneels on the floor by Allison’s chair.

It’s not until then that Stiles wonders why they’re all gathered in his room. He spots his keycard sitting on the table next to Scott’s wallet and can’t remember when he lost possession of it. He smiles around a mouthful of rice and heavenly curry.

Stiles only half listens as Lydia tells Allison about their pub crawl plans. He watches Scott intently text for a minute before speaking.

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles asks.

“Getting ready, rounding up Royales and the crew. You’re up for this, right?”

Stiles nods.

“Good. Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight, huh?”

Stiles almost chokes on his food. “Wha-?”

“You’ve been sexually frustrated since Oslo, man.”

“Maybe if I had my own hotel room I would,” Stiles says to take the heat off of him. He gestures vaguely around to the pillows that definitely hadn’t originated in his room and the various items of clothing and electronics that weren’t his.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to…” Scott starts, looking a little disappointed.

“I didn’t… I… I like it. I mean. You guys are welcome… anywhere. Absolutely anywhere that I am, you are welcome in that place. I uh…” Stiles is _blushing_ about it. God. It shouldn’t be hard to be friendly like a normal fucking human being. And the idea that Scott would ever think he’d encroached on Stiles’ space… As if they hadn’t forfeited personal space when they were kids.

“Yeah, um, you too.”

And that’s a peace offering if Stiles has ever heard one.

**

At the third stop of the night, Derek spots Stiles up at the bar by himself and heads over to him.

“Should you be drinking? Are you on anything?” Derek asks, nodding toward Stiles’ hand.

He shook his head. “It’s not broken, remember?”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Then he nods to the nearly empty pint of beer in his hand. “And isn’t that bad for your voice?”

Stiles shrugs. “Not really… And yes.” He lifts an eyebrow and smirks before he finishes his beer and sets it down on the bar.

“Oh. That’s good. And bad?” Derek nods too much and their eyes are locked for too long. He takes a sip of his beer for the sake of doing something but ends up sloshing some onto himself. Stiles doesn’t comment on it.

“So um…” Stiles starts, scratching the back of his head with his uninjured hand. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

He drops his arm back to his side and shrugs, his lips curling into a winning smile before he laughs. “I don’t know. It’s just been a pretty decent twenty-four hours, I guess? And um, you know… I’m just…” He clears his throat. “Glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Glad to be here.”

“I mean, there are very few people in the world I would want in my corner during a bar scuffle, and you’re definitely one of them.” Stiles has a soft look on his face – friendly, open, relaxed…

Derek looks down into his drink when he laughs. He can feel his eyes on him… and then he feels when they slide away from him. They stand in relative silence until the bartender swoops by to set another beer in front of Stiles. He thanks him and turns to lean against the bar next to Derek.

“Interesting,” Stiles says. Derek lifts his head and follows his gaze to where everyone is dancing and talking. Derek’s eyes land on Danny and one of the twins kissing and figures that’s what Stiles is picking up on.

“Danny and Aiden? I think that’s fairly new.”

“Ethan,” he corrects. “It’d have to be, they’ve only known each other for a week.”

“Is Ethan’s out?”

“Oh, yeah. Common knowledge.”

“Public common knowledge or business common knowledge?”

“Public.”

“That’s great,” Derek says with an unintended awkwardness. Stiles looks at him with uncertainty. “Oh, I wasn’t trying to.. .I didn’t mean anything by it,” Derek stutters, cheeks ablaze.

“It’s fine,” Stiles assures him with a disinterested shrug. “Him and Danny though, that’s great. That’s a lot of muscle for one pairing, but I’m sure they’re okay with that.”

“They look pretty okay with it,” Derek says suggestively.

Stiles nudges Derek’s shoulder with his as he huffs out a laugh. “Anyway,” he chirps, pushing off from the bar. “You’ve got some interested parties, so I’m going to leave you to it.” Stiles lifts his chin toward some guys sitting further down the bar and claps Derek on the shoulder before walking away.

In the ideal version of the night, Derek grabs Stiles by the waist before he can slip into the crowd. He carefully takes Stiles’ hand into his and kisses his bruised knuckle. Stiles laughs and blushes and Derek smirks and pulls him against him. He kisses him. They go back to the hotel…

Instead, Derek looks up at a sharp-featured, bright-eyed guy and gives him a meaningful nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines is a Panic! at the Disco song. 
> 
> London's cover song is Love Songs Drug Songs by X Ambassadors, and you should definitely listen to it right now. You can ignore every other recommendation I ever give you, but you shouldn't ignore this one. [Do it for you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8matN61jFY)
> 
> I love you guys. That is all. I hope you enjoyed a little break from the angst because I sure did. :)


	13. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I did chapter summaries, this one would be: "Lots of information wrapped in bits of slow-burn fluff." 
> 
> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

October 24th.  
London, UK.

“Locked out?” 

Derek looks up from his phone to see Stiles walking toward him down the hall. “Yeah,” he sighs.

“C’mon,” he says when he stops in front of him. He holds his hand out.

“I can just call the front desk, I just…”

Stiles shrugs, his hand still out and bouncing in front of Derek’s face. 

“I just…” Derek repeats, mind wandering. He just… feels like he deserves to be locked out. He can picture where his keycard is inside with astonishing clarity – it mocks him from the pocket of the jeans he’d been wearing earlier. And though he wants nothing more than to be in bed, asleep and unthinking, he is weighed down by… 

“You’re in a regret spiral, I know. C’mon,” Stiles says with a little bit of a smirk. 

Derek grasps his hand and lets him pull him to his feet. “You can hang out with me while you muster the will power to get back into your room.” 

Derek follows him without saying anything. Once back in Stiles’ room, the sense of calm he’d felt earlier washes back over him. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as he sinks into the arm chair. 

“So…” Stiles says after kicking off his shoes and flopping onto his bed. 

“So what?”

“Why are you in a regret spiral?”

Derek shrugs, not really wanting to talk about it. Especially not with Stiles.

“I saw you leave with one of the guys at the bar…”

Derek gives him what he hopes is a glare strong enough to deter him. Stiles just smiles.

“Not so good, huh?”

“No.”

“Did he know who you were?”

“Yep,” Derek says, face burning as he squeezes his eyes shut against the thought of it.

“Ah. That’s tricky territory.”

Before Derek thinks better of it, he says: “He tried to get me to call him Stiles.”

Stiles laughs… no, cackles. He cackles about it. Derek opens his eyes and sees that he’s rolled onto his back, his head hanging off the foot of his bed. 

“Shut up,” Derek says without any fire. If it had happened to anyone but him, he would think it was funny too. Stiles doesn’t shut up. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wheezes, holding his stomach. 

“No, you aren’t.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“No. Why do you think I’m back so early?”

“Yo, I know you can do a lot in a handful of minutes,” Stiles laughs. The second the last word has left his mouth, he covers his face with his hand. “Sorry.”

Derek doesn’t comment on that. “What’s your excuse? Why are you back so soon?”

“Something in my bones told me you were locked out and miserable.”

Derek stares at him.

“I just… wasn’t feeling it. I’m tired. Been in hospitals a little too much in the last week, you know?”

Derek nods. Stiles looks at him from upside down, his eyes looking honey-like. To keep himself from joining him on the bed, Derek clears his throat and asks, “So uh, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fiiine,” Stiles drawls, holding his hand above him, shifting his gaze to look at it instead of at Derek. 

“So why do you have to wear a brace?”

“For extra support until it stops hurting.”

“You said it didn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t,” he says with an impish upside-down grin.

Derek watches as he brings his arm back down to his chest and closes his eyes. Stiles takes a deep, audible breath and sighs on the exhale. Derek can almost feel the waves of exhaustion coming from him. Or the road had finally caught up to him and his weakened tour endurance. Derek lets his head fall back against the back of the chair and closes his eyes too.

**

“I have a confession,” Stiles says, not even bothering to open his eyes. 

“Hm?” Derek mumbles from the chair. 

“I almost fucked a fan once. I was so close to convincing myself to do it. And then he asked me to call him Derek.”

“You son of a bitch,” Derek says in his gravely monotone. Stiles can detect a smile without even having to see it.

“Total deal breaker.”

“Did he even look like me?”

Stiles thinks for a second. “I can’t remember, probably not. Why, did your guy look like me?”

“A little.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, who would want to have sex with you?” Derek teases.

“So you have a type, then.”

Derek scoffs. “You’re not it.”

“Ouch!”

“The only Stiles I want to have sex with is the real one,” he says. “Would want,” he corrects. “The only Stiles I would theoretically want to have sex with… you know what I mean.”

Stiles curls his face toward his shoulder and hopes Derek can’t see the grin he can’t fight down. “You’re allowed to want to have sex with me, I am totally okay with you wanting that.”

“Shut up.”

Stiles laughs until he hears Derek rustling around. He rolls back over onto his stomach and sees him getting to his feet. “Oh c’mon, don’t go,” Stiles says, frowning. 

“I’m not.” He shrugs out of his jacket and drops it on the chair. 

Stiles doesn’t want to say anything. Doesn’t want to spook him. Derek takes off his shoes and kicks them half under the chair, takes off his watch, shakes out his shoulders and finishes the ritual by ruffling his hair with both hands. Stiles loves watching him.

Derek crosses to the bed and takes a spot up by the headboard. 

“It’s like you guys think you can just take over my bed whenever you want,” Stiles says without moving, hiding a grin in the duvet, his voice way nicer than he wanted to let on…

**

April 7th, 2012.  
New York City.

The bus was quiet and empty and _perfect_. Derek’s head was pounding from the night before. He had a few minutes before—

“Hoooo-ly shit, man,” Stiles exclaimed as he and the rest of the circus poured onto the bus. Lydia was singing happily, Scott was slapping his palms against every surface, everyone else was laughing and talking.

It made Derek’s stomach turn.

“Have you seen this?”Stiles asked, slapping a magazine down on the table in front of him. 

“How are you so energetic?” he grumbled.

Stiles smirked and tapped the magazine until Derek looked down.

And there they were. On the cover. Scott’s unruly curls and sparkling grin, Lydia’s alabaster skin and bright red lips, Stiles’ fierce smirk and amber eyes, and Derek. Standing in a straight line, dressed way trendier than they ever really did on their own, “Your Next Favorite Band” scrawled in neon across their chests, headlines framing them. Right there. Glossy and important and…

“The Rolling Stone, people,” Stiles said with a grin. “Hot off the presses.”

“You look good,” Derek told him.

Stiles bent down and kissed his cheek. “You do too. Read it, though. It’s amazing.”

The rest of the noise continued to the bunks and the back lounge, but Stiles plopped down opposite of Derek and opened the magazine to the right page. “Read it.”

“I hate reading these things—“

“No, you have to. It’s so nice and glowing and great and exciting. Isn’t it exciting? We’re on the cover of _the_ magazine to be on the cover of.”

Derek propped his head up with his fist and gave him his best admonishing look.

“Baaabe,” Stiles bleated as he reached over the table to wrap his hand around Derek’s wrist. “You drank way too much last night like a total loser,” he said just when Derek thought he was going to say something encouraging or sweet. “And you threw up a lot, which is really not a good look on you. I thought your tolerance was higher than that.”

Derek would shake Stiles’ hand off his wrist if it didn’t mean having to move too much. 

“Here,” Stiles said, hand slipping off his wrist. “I’ll read the good parts to you.”

Derek groaned.

“The brooding Derek Hale—“

“Brooding,” Derek interjected in a mocking tone.

“You’ll never shake that, sorry. Anyway!” He clears his throat and continues reading. “The brooding Derek Hale is a thoughtful, masterful young musician. His complex rhythms and chord structures add necessary atmosphere to McCall’s upbeat guitar and Martin’s playful drums. In live performances, he demonstrates incredible comfort and confidence. His proclivity for improvisation during live performances shows just how knowledgeable he is about his instrument and music as an art form. Hale is a breath of fresh air in a genre plagued with simplified instrumentals and an internalized belief that the bass is an easy instrument.”

Derek felt sick. “Okay, okay, stop.”

“C’mon, that’s so great!”

“I just can’t stand… reading about myself or hearing about myself or whatever, it’s so weird.”

“People are appreciating you as an artist and you think that’s weird? They say you’re a great songwriter too. Here. It says: As a team, Hale and Stilinski are responsible for writing the songs you can’t stop singing. Equal parts catchy and smart, every track on their debut album shows a maturity not often found in young groups. Once sitting down with Smokes, it was clear that the sound we’ve come to know from them is a perfect mix of Stilinski’s effervescence and Hale’s sardonic wit—“

“Stiles, please…”

Stiles looked up at him over the top of the magazine. “What’s wrong?”

“It just… it’s pressure, and it just…” His head pounds as he tries to find words that won’t hurt Stiles’ feelings. “It’s just pressure.” Good enough.

He couldn’t tell Stiles that he hadn’t been able to write on his own in months. He couldn’t tell him that he was starting to feel himself buckling under the weight of… magazine covers and interviews and TV performances and rabid fans. Especially not when Stiles still needed him. Especially not as Stiles and the rest of them were blossoming in the spotlight. Especially not when everything was going so well.

Stiles closed the magazine and set it down between them. Derek wanted to kiss the sad, forced little smile right off his face. He wanted to whisper apologies against his lips before pulling him into his lap and just holding him…

Stiles stood up and grabbed Derek’s hand. “C’mon, nap time,” he said. 

Derek laced his fingers through Stiles’ and stood too. The bus was on the freeway by the time they were curled around each other in Stiles’ bunk. Derek could breathe again. Stiles kissed his neck lazily, fingers twisted in Derek’s shirt. Stiles’ hair smelled like hotel shampoo and his body was warm. Derek wished everyone knew how much this person meant to him…

He sometimes fantasized about a world where he and Stiles were just common knowledge. Together. In love. Committed. He sometimes thought that’d make the rest of it easier. If he could wrap an arm around Stiles’ waist and hold him as close as possible throughout all of it, he could do it forever.

**

**Current.**

“Wow, I’ve never heard you complain about being in bed with me before,” Derek mumbles as sarcastically as he can manage. 

Stiles lets out a pleasantly surprised noise and scrambles to sit up facing him. “I was getting something in return for all that bed sharing, if I remember correctly,” he shoots back, friendly fire flickering in his eyes.

Derek laughs. “Okay, tiger.”

“Okay as in you want to earn your keep or…?” 

Derek throws a pillow at Stiles as he laughs at himself.

“Sorry. I keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Alluding to our sexual past or whatever. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, I really can’t help it.”

“Hey, we had a great sexual past,” Derek points out, trying to sound casual about it. 

“True.”

Derek takes Stiles in as he sits just a few feet away from him. He looks ridiculous against the floral duvet in his tight black jeans and some designer t-shirt. He looks older and more worn than the mental picture he’d been unable to erase for the last two years. But today, for the first time since their lives crashed back together, Stiles looks like himself. Feels like himself. Hugging Scott in a bar, saving Derek in a hallway, bantering in a hotel room. 

“You’ve changed,” Derek says.

“So you’ve said,” he counters.

“Do you disagree?” 

“No,” he says simply. “Is there something wrong with shiny new Stiles?”

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t know that Stiles yet.”

Stiles looks down and picks at the frayed hem on his jeans. “Do you want to know him?” he asks so quietly Derek almost can’t hear him.

Derek wants every version of Stiles, always has. “Yeah, I do.”

Stiles laughs a little and looks back up at him. “Well, good.”

“You’ve seemed… very recognizable today.”

“I’ve felt pretty recognizable.”

Derek’s feeling pretty chatty and honest at the moment. He almost tries to tell himself to shut up, but he can’t. “It’s nice hearing you actually talk.”

“What, this gravelly mess?” he asks, pointing at his throat. 

“Maybe if you took better care of yourself, you wouldn’t be so gravelly.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He smiles and sings some Fall Out Boy song as he heads toward the bathroom.

“Growing up, whoa!” Derek hears Stiles sing, voice echoing around prettily in the bathroom.

“That’s a terrible song,” Derek calls to him.

“You’re a terrible song!” Stiles shoots back.

**

February 18th, 2013.  
Paris, France.

Derek had finally fallen asleep. He had gone from sober to drunk to hot mess pretty quickly that night. They ended up in their hotel bathroom. 

Paris. Paris during the day had been sparkling and biting cold and colorful. Paris at night had been sexy and illicit and Derek falling apart. Stiles felt shell-shocked. Derek had been drinking more than usual this tour, of course Stiles had noticed that. But this was brand new.

Stiles took a deep breath and held it as long as he could before letting it out. Derek had fallen asleep with his head against the cool porcelain of the bath tub. Stiles’ back had started to ache from sitting on the hard tile but he felt too paralyzed to change position.

He hadn’t ever seen Derek lose control.

Never wanted to again.

Stiles swore to rein him in and watch him and keep him from overdoing it, just like Derek always did for him. Stiles swore to kiss away those words that came out of his mouth…

Things like “I’m holding you back” and “I’m fucking worthless.” And that was just the taxi ride back to the hotel. It got worse from there. Derek, puking and sobbing and considerably more muscular than Stiles, had been very difficult. Stiles had held his hand and rubbed his neck and kissed him until he eventually settled and fell asleep.

They had been writing the night before. Naked in bed, sheets pooled around their hips as they bent their heads over a notebook. Derek kept reaching for Stiles’ guitar and sometimes Stiles would just pitch forward to kiss him with it between them. Stiles saw himself having nights like that for the rest of his life. With him. Always with him. And that morning, a French radio host had told Derek that he was a visionary. And a photographer told him he was beautiful. And the videographer who recorded them performing outside the Louvre for a magazine feature told him he was captivating. And Stiles always wanted to hear people saying good things about Derek.

Always.

Because Stiles loved him. And Stiles would do anything for him. No one could hurt him or say anything bad about him without consequence. Not him. Not on his watch. Never. 

But he couldn’t stop Derek from thinking the way he did.... He couldn’t stop him from drunkenly calling himself useless.

The next morning on their way to Cologne, Scott played a non-stop score of Blink-182 over the bus’s sound system and everyone sang along. Even Derek. Stiles had his hands on him as much as he could, kept trying to find the little warning signs in his smile. He wanted to touch him until he forgot how to hate himself. But Derek was fine. They were going to be okay. It had just been a bad night.

**

**Current.**

Stiles looks perfect. Soft, sweet. The bags under his eyes only add to it. He looks whole and good against the crisp sheets. Faded heather gray shirt twisted around his waist, Sriracha boxer shorts, hair soft and fluffy. Darling, darling, darling. Derek almost hurts from it. 

Derek stands at the foot of the bed. He’d decided that getting into his room could wait until morning. Somewhere in between scolding Stiles about not taking care of himself and listening to Stiles yell the words to a song from the bathroom and letting the conversation drift aimlessly around to the time Derek lost his voice after he and Scott spent the entire drive from Salt Lake to Vegas pretending to be Rammstein… he’d decided to stick around.

It wasn’t supposed to be easy talking to Stiles, but it was. With a nagging weight on his lungs, Derek remembers what Laura had said a few months after he left the band, when he was still a mess, when he did nothing but study and sleep – “If you’re trying to get over him, forget about it. Just learn how to deal.”

He’d gotten up just to pace, to _deal_ with how right it felt to lean against Stiles’ headboard and talk late into the night. Because when it came to Stiles Stilinski, there was nothing Derek could just get over, not even the small things.

“Just stay,” Stiles says, squinting up at him. When Derek just stares, he throws his arm out and pats the empty stretch of mattress to his left. “It’s late.”

Derek nods and rubs his hand over his stubbly jaw as he looks around at the mess that had accumulated over the past couple of days, wondering if anything of his comfortable enough to sleep in had made its way here. He reaches for his belt, but his hands hesitate.

Stiles snorts, looking up at him with a smile. “You look so virginal at the foot of my bed like that,” he mumbles. 

Derek slides his belt out and throws it at Stiles’ chest. He shields his face and laughs. “I have clean stuff you can borrow, you know?” he says and throws the belt back at Derek. He leans over the side of the bed just enough to dig through his bag. “Here.” He tosses a balled up shirt at Derek. “This was always big enough.”

**

September 3rd, 2014.  
Los Angeles.

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Brunski sighed. “You’re at a very delicate point in your career. You know that? One wrong move, and you guys will fade away into obscurity. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Me specifically?” Stiles asked. He could feel the old principal’s office defiance flaring up in him. Record label stuffed suit Mr. Richard Brunski and his cartoonish smarminess really brought it out in him. 

“I’m talking to each of you individually. Feel free to compare notes with one another later, I just wanted to really connect with you about your career, one on one.”

“Okay…”

“A member of my team has brought this to my attention,” he said, sliding a file across the desk toward him. “Take a look and tell me what it means to you.”

Stiles flicked the folder open. It was a page ripped from a magazine. Nothing incriminating. “Smokes Out and About” was the headline. Pictures of Lydia and Allison shopping. Scott playing pool with Danny and Jackson. Stiles getting coffee with some friends. Derek and Laura walking a dog.

“Uh, this is from our day off in New York?” Stiles asked.

“Here, look closer,” he said, leaning forward and tapping one of the pictures of Derek with his sister. “What’s that shirt?”

Stiles squinted at it. “It’s a Beacon Hills cross country shirt.”

“Whose shirt is it?”

“Mine,” Stiles answered. Derek had been out of clean shirts that morning. 

“Mhmm,” he murmured and leaned back. He tapped the picture that had Derek’s back to the camera. “Stilinski, big letters. Do you see the caption?”

Stiles tried really hard not to roll his eyes as he pulled it closer to him. “GOING STEADY? Not quite a letterman’s jacket, but we’ll take it. How bromantic!” Stiles read out loud. He looked back up at Brunski. “And?”

“Fan speculation is one thing, media speculation is another.”

“It’s harmless. It’s the only shirt I had that The Incredible Hulk over here can fit into.”

“I understand that, and I understand that your relationship with Mr. Hale is important to you and that you’re both committed to keeping things under the radar. I respect that. But here’s the thing. You have an image, as a member of a band that is very image-driven, that is bankable. When you two accidentally let things slip, your image is tarnished.”

Stiles really did roll his eyes at that.

“I know it’s a shame. But if you were dating Lydia, we’d be having the same conversation.”

“Suuure we would,” Stiles snarked back. 

“Hey, decorum is written into all of our contracts here. In order to make you marketable and profitable, we need you to adhere to the guidelines. It’s for your own good, you know that. We all believe in this band. With the right steps, we believe that you could all become legends. That’s all we want for you. Industry vets, people who are far smarter than you and me, have poured a lot of time and effort into figuring out the formula to success. And with you kids, we’ve got it. We just need to keep our heads above water.”

Two years. Two albums. Two years and two albums was all that stood between them and a new contract with new terms, maybe even with a new label. With a little elbow grease and a lot of behaving, Stiles was confident that their popularity would afford them new and fantastic possibilities. Two years, two albums, and then he and Derek wouldn’t have to hide. They could make it. 

“I heard you and Derek have been working on a song.”

Uh oh. “Yeah.”

“For release?”

“Maybe.”

“Despite the content being a little… obvious?”

So he’d heard it. Of course he had. Anything recorded on the label dollar was his right to hear. Stiles wanted so badly to say something smart-ass about it, but he bit his tongue.

“It’s just a rough demo, something we were toying around with between takes for the Tempest re-release.”

“I think it’s beautiful. But I think it should be shelved for later. Don’t you?”

No. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“You understand where I’m coming from, right?” he asked with all the fake sincerity a cartoon villain such as himself can muster.

Stiles sighed. Two years. Two albums. “I do, I’m sorry.”

“Has Ms. Argent talked to you about any of this?”

Yes, but not like this. “Yeah, she has.”

“So what do you think is your best way of moving forward?”

Waiting out the contract, getting a better offer somewhere else, eventually letting their relationship be known, write whatever the fuck they want and release whatever the fuck they want… “We’ll shelve the song, we’ll tone it down a bit, I’ll make sure he goes shirtless rather than borrow anything – have you seen him shirtless? The fans will love it.”

Brunksy laughed as though they were friends, as though he was in on the joke. Stiles’ responding smile was just as fake. “Great. That’s what I like to hear.”

Of course it was.

**

**Current.**

Derek changed in the bathroom and came back looking sheepish and adorable in Stiles’ old shirt. Stiles scrolled mindlessly through Twitter on his phone to keep himself from watching Derek crawl into bed next to him.

They lay in silence for awhile. But Stiles can’t stop wondering. This person next to him lived an entire life without him. Before him, during him, after him, now. He used to know about that life. He used to be intimately familiar with this person. This friend? Or whatever. And now…

“Derek?” he asks, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Hm?”

“What’s your life been like?”

“What?”

“I mean, since you left… what’s it been like?”

Stiles listens to his breathing, almost rocks himself to sleep on the inhale and exhale… 

“School. It’s been like school and more school.”

“Is that a good thing?” Stiles asks.

“Sometimes.”

“What’s college like?”

“I don’t really know. I didn’t have a normal college experience. I commuted from home, I took too many classes a semester, I worked hard, I kept my head down. I just wanted to catch up to The Plan.”

“The Plan. Right. Did people recognize you?”

“Sometimes.”

“How about now? How’s Hastings?”

“I should be excited about it, but I’m not,” he confesses. “I should feel like I earned it, but I don’t. I should feel like I’m doing the right thing, but I don’t.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. But he can sense those words echoing around in him because he’s heard them before, in different contexts, spread over the entire time he’d known Derek. The ache in him tells him that in the two years between them he’d always hoped that maybe Derek learned to stop feeling that way.

“And do they recognize you there?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” Derek huffs. And then he laughs. “And every time someone references a lyric, or treats me like I _must_ be an airhead, or rolls their eyes at me… I just question everything. How the fuck am I going to be a lawyer?”

Stiles knows how smart Derek is. Knows how determined he always has been. Knows how righteous and stern he can be. Anyone who rolled their eyes at him must have a death wish. 

“But you don’t want to be a lawyer anyway.”

“I never said that.”

“Der, c’mon.”

Derek rolls onto his side next to him and fixes him with a fierce stare. Stiles rolls to meet it. He raises an eyebrow, adopts his best Sheriff Stilinski “just confess already” face and waits.

“You’re right,” Derek says, his eyes sweeping over Stiles’ face in a way that feels way too intimate.

“So why are you forcing yourself through all that? I mean, I know that’s The Plan, but…”

The Plan. When Derek had told him about The Plan, Stiles had repeated it complete with finger quotes and a laugh. Derek had said, “No, I can hear the lowercase in your tone. The Plan. With gusto.” The Plan, before Derek’s father had died, had been to go to college, get into Hastings and eventually take over the family’s firm. After Derek’s father had died, The Plan floated shapelessly in the liminal space between Derek-Do-Right and Hale Without a Cause. Stiles thought he’d abandoned it when the band took off.

“I don’t know,” Derek says in a breathless, overwhelmed sort of way. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Good news, buddy, because there’s a market for tall, dark, handsome rock idols with mysterious pasts,” Stiles teases. “Derek Hale is in high demand.”

 

**

September 4th, 2014.  
Los Angeles.

“Let me tell you something about image, Derek, and how that pertains to you,” Brunski started. Derek could sense that a long-winded parade of bullshit was headed his way. 

Brunski had apparently been meeting with everyone. Scott said it had just been routine label “be on your best behavior” talk. Lydia had confessed to not paying attention to a single word. Stiles hadn’t met with him yet when they last talked. 

“Smokes for Harris has built its success on being a group of fun-loving, stylish, beautiful young people. Everyone looks at you and they see sex and adventure. And each of you contribute to that in your own way.” 

Oh yes, the boydband-ification of what started out as a garage band continues.

“Stiles is the charismatic front man. Who knows what he’s into, but when he smirks at the camera… hey, he might be into me! Me as a teenage girl, me as a college frat boy, me as a secretary, me as a chemistry teacher, who knows! That’s his pull.”

Always has been.

“Lydia is drop dead gorgeous and could probably punch a man out without breaking a nail. She’s smart and aloof and she can keep up with the boys. She’s unattainable, but that doesn’t keep people from wanting to try. Scott is our darling, he’s the sweetheart. He’s the one every mother wants to see when their daughter brings home the new boyfriend. He’s the sexy boy next door. The Paul McCartney, if you will.”

Derek tried not to scoff at his well-rehearsed speech. Allison was a good manager who tried her hardest to let them demonstrate more depth than the Seventeen Magazine version of themselves. But then the label encouraged them not to. In their few short years under contract, Derek had lost count of how many times management and talent disagreed with the label.

“And then there’s you! You have a very important role in this band. You are the bad boy, the dark and mysterious man at the bar who drove up in a Maserati and takes the most beautiful girl in the whole place home when you go. Your band works because it’s chock full of those music idol stock characters, you know? Stiles is a Julian Casablancas or a Brendon Urie, even. You’ve got that broody Trent Reznor thing going for you.”

Brunski paused and looked at Derek expectantly as though he knew where this was going. “Okay…” Derek said after awhile to get him to continue. Broody. A _broody_ Trent Reznor thing. Christ. Stiles would be cackling at the comparison if he had been there but Derek just thought it was annoying.

“And that’s why we need these rumors of you two together to end.”

“Oh.”

“If you want to move forward, if you want this band to really reach its iconic potential, then you need to embrace that. Now I don’t care what you two do behind closed doors. This is the 21st century, you two kids have a great time, do what you want.” 

Derek had adopted a glare at some point in the preceding few seconds and it wasn’t going to go away.

“And that’s why this song you two have been working on doesn’t have a place on the next record. It’s beautiful and touching and great, but there’s no way for us to spin this as anything other than what it is. You have to be flexible, you have to make concessions, you have to make some less-than-desirable decisions in this business. Do you understand?”

No. “Yes.”

Brunski smiled and let out a sigh of relief. “You’ll be fine, Derek. Maybe you can record it for the reunion tour in twenty years, huh? But for now, we have to shelve it.”

“Okay.”

“I already talked to Stiles and he agreed. I’m glad we’re all on the same page. Now let’s just go over some decorum…”

Derek stopped paying attention. He offered the occasional nod to show he understood. So, Stiles had agreed to shelve the song? Stiles didn’t agree with anything anyone said but he agreed with that? The logical part of him knew that Stiles, though obstinate, could put on a show when needed. He knew that Stiles would tell the label anything to get them to shut up, just like he’d tell a journalist anything to make them love him or tell a fan anything to make them happy. But the nervous heart of him spun out of control and wrote whole alternate histories to what could have led to Stiles just _agreeing_. 

“Do you understand?” Brunski asked, shaking Derek out of it. 

“Huh?”

“Do you understand why we need you and Stiles to cool it?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” he said, his smile leaning cruel as he sat back in his chair.

**

**Current.**

“I don’t know why,” Derek says after a pause long enough to take stock of his own fame.

“I don’t either,” Stiles laughs. Derek laughs too. “I mean, think about it.” Stiles has to turn that self-deprecation around somehow. “You only contributed to one of our albums. We toured with it for a few years. And then you quit. Then The Rolling Fucking Stone published an article claiming that you were dooming the future of rock. Because somehow in three years time, you became a gigantic symbol for… something. I don’t know. How did you manage?”

Derek groans, covering his face. “I don’t know.”

Stiles looks at him, laying there with an easy smile half hidden under his hands, and can’t stand that he’s not allowed to touch him. “Because you’re special.” And magnetic and talented and beautiful and smart and cool and genuine and good and a little bit of a heartbreaker, but apparently that works for people. It works for Stiles. 

“Shut up.”

He shoves a pillow into Stiles face and laughs. God, Stiles loves when he laughs. Wants to make him laugh all the time. Just like he used to. 

“Let’s just start a weird folk band and travel the dusty roads of America together. You and me,” Stiles suggests after he’s slapped the pillow back over to Derek’s side of the bed.

“Just a couple of exes, huh?”

“Hey, we can call ourselves that. Perfect.”

“Can one guitarist and one bassist truly call themselves a band?” Derek ponders.

“Lydia can come too. And Scott.”

“So you’re going to quit this band to start a new one with the same old people?” Derek points out.

“Should we audition new people?”

“Just keep your band.”

Stiles likes the sound of that. “But what if I want to go in a weird folksy direction? What if they aren’t down?”

“Smoke more weed?”

“I like the way you think.”

Stiles is starting to feel sleep pull him down, pull his eyes closed, fill his mouth with sand… He smiles, thinking of some alternate version of themselves as rockers in the 60s. Long hair, beads, Lydia in flowing floral skirts, Scott in round sunglasses, Derek putting sunflowers in the rifles held by police in riot gear… Smoking out with The Beatles, touring with The Rolling Stones, playing gigs with Bob Dylan, Woodstock… 

“Have you even thought about the band breaking up at all today? Tell me the truth,” Derek asks in a soft, lovely voice.

Stiles hears him, processes the question, and answers. “Not even once.”

Because today felt like a permanent, fixed thing. Because he felt whole for the first time in awhile. Because he felt centered. And now he’s thinking of them all as if they’ve always existed, in some way, throughout everything. Just these four people. Like they were always meant to come together. Like they were always meant to belong to each other. 

He reaches out and wraps his hand around Derek’s wrist. He can finally match a word to how he’s felt all day – hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Growing Up" is a (very old) Fall Out Boy song. 
> 
> This chapter took a long time because I admittedly hate brick-laying sort of writing (but it's so important!). And for transparency's sake: the rest of the mystery around Derek's departure will be handled in the next chapter.


	14. Suit Up Boys, We're On Vacation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

October 24th.  
London, UK.

The first thing Derek sees upon waking up is Stiles beyond the hillside of a fluffy comforter. The curves of his face. The peak of his cheekbone, the hollow of his cheek. His eyes squinting against the gray light and the offensive shrillness of his ringtone. His loose grip on Derek’s wrist tightens a little before disappearing completely to dig around in the blankets.

“What’s up?” he asks his caller, voice raspy.

Derek listens to the tinny undecipherable response on the other end while trying to fully wake up.

“Yeah, yes, breakfast, please yes,” Stiles says urgently. “Fuck tea, I’ll drink what I want,” he argues after a pause. “If I drink tea it’s because I feel like it.” Another pause. “Give me twenty. Bye.”

He hangs up and thrusts his phone under his pillow. “Allison’s calling you,” he says about half a second before Derek’s phone starts vibrating on the bedside table.

“Morning,” Derek answers.

“Hey, did you make it back okay last night?” she asks. She sounds more casual and relaxed than Derek has heard her in a long time. 

“Yeah, I did. Thanks.”

“Good. I’m gathering the troops for breakfast, you in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We’re meeting in the lobby in twenty.”

“I’ll be there.”

When Derek hangs up, he turns his head back toward Stiles. He’s looking at Derek with a far away early morning gaze.

“You okay?” Derek asks.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice coming out in a croak. A smile spreads slowly over his face as his hand goes to his throat. 

“Oh, are you?” Derek laughs.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

“I need to get back into my room…”

“Yeah you do,” Stiles says with a nod. 

“I’m going to go do that,” Derek asserts, rolling out of bed to gather his things.

“Excellent. I’ll see you downstairs,” Stiles responds, echoing the same jovial tone. He gives him an awkward little wave over his shoulder as he heads into the bathroom. 

Derek slips out the door while trying not to imagine Stiles naked in the shower. 

He leans against his door as he waits for someone to come let him in, playing a version of the morning over and over in his head. A version where they woke up slowly and grinned at each other and laughed and continued talking like they had the night before. A version where Stiles only let go of his wrist to tangle his fingers in Derek’s. 

**

September 8th, 2014.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

Derek decided not to bring up the meeting the next time he saw Stiles. He didn’t want to dwell on what was discussed, he didn’t want to think about the horrible twisting uncertainty in him, he didn’t want to taint their little vacation. 

Derek’s flight left the night of the meeting, while Stiles had to stay in LA for a couple more days. That gave him plenty of time to let everything stew. He hadn’t _wanted_ to dwell on it, but he did anyway.

In that time, Derek started to take what Brunski had to say as gospel – not that he agreed with it, but it was the law of the land. And Stiles had been on board, so no need to go any further. He was on board to shut the label up, to save face, to keep their career on track, whatever. Stiles was smart about those kinds of things. No use fighting it. 

He spent his Stiles-free days in Beacon Hills with his family and everyone and everything reminded him of his father and his ironclad sense of integrity. When his father was still alive, Derek had wanted to be like him but richer and sterner and stronger. Derek had wanted nothing more than to become the exact dark and mysterious Maserati driving man of Brunski’s fabrication. He’d been okay with that. His dad used to shake his head, laugh at him, and counter with “Whatever you say, son.” 

When his dad died, suddenly, the one person he had to prove anything to more than anyone else was just… gone. He died and Derek died a little too. In the following weeks, Derek had never felt hollower. 

Then Stiles Stilinski flicked a cigarette at his boots and leaned on his car and gave him that fox-like smirk… And then Stiles invited him to sit with him at lunch and somehow pulled him into all his little adventures. Derek stopped feeling hollow and started feeling moldable. The mournful static started to clear a little when he was with Stiles and Scott and Lydia. 

When they started the band, Derek felt centered and sure. And when he put a name to what he felt for Stiles Stilinski… he felt good and whole. He fell in love with that boy. That skinny jeans wearing, cigarette smoking, son of the Sheriff absolutely wooed him and seduced him and took him right out of the arms of a decent girlfriend. That boy forced Derek to look at himself in a new light. 

Stiles didn’t complete him, he just made him happy. He just made him aware of what the world could be – full of fun and loyalty and adventure and goodness. Just like his father had. His father and Stiles were completely different people in every way, but they had that in common. Stiles had something in him that spoke to something in Derek and that had saved him.

And now he was being asked to squash that for his career and it felt wrong. It felt completely wrong. And he wasn’t going to do it. He didn’t value his career more than he valued his beliefs. He didn’t want to be cutthroat, he just wanted to play bass in a rock band with his best friends. He just wanted a little integrity. 

When Stiles finally got back to Beacon Hills, he showed up at Derek’s loft with a six pack of beer and takeout and a sleepy, loving grin. Derek couldn’t stop kissing him. 

“Move in with me,” Stiles had said breathlessly after pulling his face away from Derek’s. His eyes were half-closed as he panted through it.

“Yes,” Derek said. It was easier to say yes than “I don’t think I can do this anymore, sorry.”

“Allison is looking for a place we’ll both like,” he said, putting a hand up between his and Derek’s face as he leaned back in. Derek just kissed his palm and made an agreeable sound before knocking his hand out of the way.

“I love you,” Stiles said, totally bare besides the sweetest sincerity.

Derek hoped he loved him enough to understand. 

“Love you back.”

In the coming weeks, Derek thought and thought and thought about it. He thought about his inability to write and his increasing fear of attention and with all things considered… it wasn’t worth it. So he fought tooth and nail with Allison until she agreed to let him go. He sold the rights to his songs, he didn’t want to be connected to them, he didn’t want to be legally bound to the label anymore, he wanted freedom. He tried to figure out a way to tell the band he was leaving. He couldn’t do the pressure, he couldn’t do the lying, he couldn’t handle the burdens of the industry anymore. If Scott and Lydia loved him, they’d understand. If Stiles loved him, he wouldn’t hold it against him…

**

**Current**

“The Karate Kid is the best movie of the 80s, you’re wrong.”

“Listen, Der, I love you. But I can’t let you walk through life thinking that,” Lydia argues. 

Her arm is looped through Derek’s as they walk right in front of Stiles. Everyone else is further up ahead, lost in the hustle and bustle of Trafalgar Square. 

“What?” Derek says in a challenging way. “Mr. Miyagi shaped me as a person.”

“Fine,” she sighs. Stiles knows she’s rolling her eyes dramatically. “I keep forgetting that you’re still just a big dumb jock,” she teases. 

“Hey!” he exclaims, breaking into a laugh.

“I’m so ashamed of you. I did not make you idiots sit through my Molly Ringwald collection just for you to think The Karate Kid is the greatest movie of the 80s.”

“You needed more girl friends in high school.”

“Apparently I did!” She looks over her shoulder at Stiles. “Stiles, what’s the best movie of the 80s?”

“Goonies,” he answers without hesitation.

“Hmmm… Yeah, I can’t hate on that.” She looks back at Derek. “Goonies is an acceptable answer, Derek.”

“What’s your problem with The Karate Kid?” Derek asks, his voice going up an octave in frustration.

Scott appears at his side then and bumps him with his shoulder. 

“How’s your voice?” he asks.

“It’s fine.”

“So you’re just being quiet to be quiet?” he presses, a note of caution in his voice.

Stiles shrugs. “Just soaking it in.” He gestures with open arms at their friends ahead of them. 

He misses everything the second each moment slips from his fingers. He’s feeling preemptively nostalgic. 

He woke up that morning feeling transported, as if he’d woken up two years earlier. As if he’d woken up the morning he moved to LA, only this time he knew that Derek wouldn’t be joining him. This time, he looked at Derek and it didn’t feel permanent. He hadn’t felt whole. He’d felt a gaping lack. Like Derek was a flickering hologram on the other side of the bed. 

And he’d gone to breakfast with people he’d long ago stopped thinking of as just friends. Scott hadn’t been his friend since they were children. Lydia hadn’t been his friend since she showed up to help him with his math homework the morning after the one time they’d had sex. Allison hadn’t ever been his friend. She went from manager to… _Allison_ the second they started their first supporting tour. Danny, Jackson, the techs, Royales... He spent half of the last tour stuck in his own head, miserable, and he was so far spending this tour trying to mentally prepare himself for a break up that he could probably prevent if he didn’t keep mentally preparing for it.

He woke up next to the love of his life, had breakfast with his loved ones, and was halfway through an adventurous day in one of his favorite cities with them. Textbook perfection. Absolutely textbook. But it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. It didn’t feel real. 

He started this tour like a soldier marching toward inevitable defeat. And he already wanted a do-over. The last couple of days had felt like a new opportunity. And even though it sort of hurt to wake up with Derek this morning, Stiles wants to keep doing just that until it starts to feel better. 

He can’t stop staring at the dark locks of hair curling slightly against the back of Derek’s neck. He can’t stop listening to him. He can’t stop placing himself near him. And he also can’t make sense of the conflicting urges to punch him and kiss him. 

Scott throws an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, shaking him from his thoughts. 

“Stop it,” Scott said, squeezing. 

“Stop what?”

“Over-thinking whatever you’re thinking about. Just chill.” 

“Alright, alright,” Stiles concedes and wraps his arm around Scott’s waist. 

**

September 29th, 2014.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

“You haven’t packed,” Stiles muttered, one hand tracing a lazy pattern across Derek’s chest. The yellow streetlight streaming in through the giant, filthy industrial window has every dip and curve of Derek’s body set in beautiful relief. Stiles’ eyes wanted to close, but he wanted to keep watching the way the shadows shifted every time he breathed. 

“Mm,” Derek murmured, rising up from the state of near-sleep he’d fallen into. He turned his head toward Stiles and squinted at him. “I don’t have a lot to pack.”

“It’s just weird.”

“Shhh.” Derek rolled onto his side and pulled Stiles flush against him. Stiles’ concerns faded away at the feeling of so much naked skin against him. 

“You’re only going to have about a day to get everything done, you know? Between Laura’s graduation and family and all that. And I won’t be here to help you. Get Cora to help you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried, I just…” No, Stiles was worried. Nervous maybe. “I’m just nervous. About the move. Moving is stressful. I wish you were coming with me tomorrow.”

“Today,” Derek corrected. There was something heavy about the way he said it.

“Shut up.”

Derek tightened his arms around Stiles’ body even more. “I love you,” he said, already sounding like he was falling asleep again.

“I know.”

“Don’t forget that.”

“Uh, okay,” Stiles laughed. “Love you back.”

“Good, don’t forget that either.”

Stiles laughed again. “Okay.”

**

**Current**

“Do you know how long it’s been since the last time we updated the YouTube account?” Allison asks Stiles in a sweet voice, batting her eyelashes at him over their lunch.

He stops chewing and shakes his head. He narrows his eyes suspiciously while he waits for her to continue.

“Six months,” Allison informs him. “And it was just a studio tour.”

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly after swallowing.

“I mean, I’m just saying that we should upload something. For the fans.”

“Like what?”

And that’s how Derek finds himself singing a bass line while sitting on a fountain in Hyde Park. Stiles and Scott seem to be finding it difficult to focus – they keep dissolving into laughter while splashing each other.

“Guys!” Allison calls out through a laugh.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had to do something a cappella, can we just get this over with?” Lydia says, shoving Scott. She hates having to sing. Derek nudges her with his elbow in a way that he hopes is encouraging.

“You got this, lady,” Erica encourages from her spot on the ground in front of them. 

“It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to be fun,” Allison assures her. 

A crowd is starting to gather around them, staring at them curiously. Derek can tell that most of them are trying to figure out where they’ve seen them before. When Scott and Stiles finally settle down and they actually start, Derek loves the light of recognition that spreads through the crowd. 

“Maybe when the room is empty, maybe when the bottle’s full,” Stiles sings, smiling as the crowd cheers them on in encouragement.

This whole thing is an ancient ritual for them. It all started out in high school while they were bumming around on the lacrosse field during lunch. They started out loudly singing along to their favorite songs of the moment. When they started spending all their free time practicing in Lydia’s garage, they started singing their own instruments too. They (sort of) perfected it on long drives between gigs. The first YouTube evidence of it comes from Allison covertly filming them while entertaining themselves in the shitty old van they started out in.

They used to do this a lot, Derek remembers. Not always a cappella, not always organized. But their YouTube channel was full of impromptu sing-a-longs and acoustic performances on the bus, in hotel rooms, backstage before shows, lying around Derek’s loft…

There’s one such video that has millions of views and comments from both diehard fans and people who had never listened to them before. 

Stiles, adorned only in sweatpants, sits amongst white sheets. The room is filled with gray light, a heavy summer rain outside the visible window. Derek lies in bed beside him, Lydia curled against his chest, Scott playing on his phone at the foot of the bed. 

Stiles has an acoustic guitar in his lap and a gentle early morning grin on his face as he strums and sings and takes pauses for sips of coffee. Allison was behind the camera, and sometimes can be heard singing along in a soft, melodic voice or giggling. She encourages Stiles and comments on how sweet they look curled up in bed together like kittens.

“This is the first day of my life. I'm glad I didn't die before I met you, but now I don't care I could go anywhere with you and I'd probably be happy,” Stiles sings, cupid’s bow lips turning up at the corners as he strums. The video ends with Derek nodding in approval, with Lydia smiling prettily up at Stiles. With Scott cheering. With Allison laughing. With Stiles holding his arms out to accept the praise. 

But everyone there knows that when the camera turned off, Stiles leaned over his guitar and kissed Derek. Derek hated to admit it, but he watches the video sometimes, just to see them in that moment again. Lovely and young and un-scathed.

Derek looks around at them now, as the crowd gets larger, as more and more phones and cameras are pointed at them. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that he’s the center of attention. Because his center of attention isn’t on the crowd, it’s on the song at hand. His eyes are closed and his chin tilted upward. He slaps Scott’s hands away whenever Scott reaches over to prod him in the side, his voice shaking slightly with suppressed laughter.

“You should be my punk rock princess, I could be your garage band king. You could tell me why you just don't fit in, and how you're gonna be something,” Stiles sings through a grin. 

**

October 25th.  
En route to Manchester, UK.

Stiles yawns in the lobby while waiting for Allison to direct them further. They got back to the hotel late last night after more tourism than Stiles had ever done in his entire life. His feet still hurt from all the walking, but he smiles when he thinks about it. Their tiny London vacation is over and Stiles is pretty sure he’s missing some clothes and he’s pretty sure the laptop charger he has packed isn’t actually his. And that makes him smile too. 

The crew left earlier in the morning, and apparently took Ethan with them. Aiden and Erica keep making suggestive jokes about it. Scott sits on the ground in front of Lydia while she distractedly weaves tiny little braids into his hair. He looks too tired to notice. And Derek is standing right next to Stiles, shifting his backpack and rolling his neck. Stiles is too tired to feel the distinct desire to punch him (like he had all day yesterday) but not too tired to want to hug him. 

“How’d you sleep?” Stiles asks, bouncing on his heels. He clears his throat after he hears his own voice.

“Fine. You sound like shit.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“You sound terrible,” Boyd says, coming up behind them with Allison at his side. “To the bus!” he announces to the rest of them and leads the way out.

Once on the bus, Stiles sits in the back lounge and rubs his throat while watching Derek, Scott and Aiden battle it out on the Xbox. They curse at each other and laugh and _talk_ as if that’s the easiest thing to do in the world. All the people without pre-existing vocal strain are fine, leaving Stiles to stew silently in an extra dose of pre-show jitters all by himself.

“Stiles, I promise my aloe trick will save the day,” Erica says from the opposite end of the lounge. He looks over at her and sees a set of determined eyebrows and a piercing glare.

“Alright, fine, do your worst,” he sighs. Erica’s responding face looks sinister.

Moments later, Stiles is sitting on the very tiny bathroom floor, gagging on his own dwindling life force. Erica cackles from the door. 

“That is fucking disgusting,” he coughs out before gagging again. “You’re an asshole, Erica Reyes. An absolute—“ He retches but nothing comes up. “Fuck.”

“I’m just trying to impart knowledge, one singer to another. And you weren’t supposed to swallow it, I told you specifically not to swallow it.”

“How was I not supposed to swallow it? You said I needed to get it far enough down my throat to make me gag on it, I honestly don’t see how that was supposed to be accomplished without swallowing it.”

“I underestimated your swallowing instincts, then,” she says dryly. 

Stiles tries not to encourage her but ends up laughing. “I’m generally encouraged to swallow.”

She purses her lips in an attempt to look stern but ends up laughing. “Slut.”

 

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at her suggestively until kicks his leg and points at the cup sloshing around on the counter.

“Alright, let’s try this again,” Stiles says, pulling himself to his feet. He picks up the paper cup of murky liquid and sniffs at it. “Just have to relearn my gag reflex—“

“I know that’ll be hard for you,” she cuts in with a wicked smirk.

“If this doesn’t work, I’m done trusting you. For good. I mean it, Reyes.”

Erica crosses her fingers for him as he takes another big gulp of her witch’s brew. This time, he doesn’t swallow. She smiles at him proudly after he gags and spits it out in the sink.

“And now you’re ready to start your training as an opera singer,” she says with a sage nod.

“Excellent,” he deadpans. 

Erica watches him as he successfully gargles the rest of the contents of the cup. He spits, makes a face and dances out the disgust. 

“Hey, yesterday was fun,” she says out of nowhere. “Thanks for letting us be tourists.”

“No problem. It was nice.”

“Yeah it was.” She pauses and picks at her nails for a moment before looking back up at him. “I like Derek, he’s really cool.”

Stiles can’t fight down the smile that blooms across his face. “Yeah, he’s okay,” he says softly.

“You’re fucked,” she says, frowning in fake concern. 

“Am not.”

She gives him a knowing smile. “You so are.”

**

October 25th.  
Manchester, UK.

Someone had given them a Nerf football and that had been a grave mistake. Stiles watches as Derek and Scott play keep away. Lydia had blockaded herself with toss pillows and a surly frown. Scott finally gets the ball back and pegs Lydia with it as hard as he can. She squawks and scrambles out of the way as Derek surges forward and snatches it back.

“Big stupid jock,” Lydia mutters and abandons her post to seek asylum by the catering table with Allison. 

Derek stuck his tongue out at her, which gave Scott the advantage. They both go down in a heap of limbs and grunts. Stiles turns his attention away from them and back to the girls.

“How’s your voice?” Allison asks. 

“I think it’s good.” He and Erica had spent a lot of time properly warming up after sound check and the aloe thing did seem to b helping a little.

Someone opens a door that leads to the stage and the thunderous conclusion of Royales’ set momentarily fills the green room. A few seconds later, Greenberg pokes his head into the room. “They’re finishing up. We’re on in fifteen.”

**

Derek takes an elbow to the face not long after Greenberg’s given them a ten minute warning. He laughs as he clutches his nose while Scott looks down at him with wide eyes. 

“Bro, I am so sorry.”

“Okay, okay, children,” Allison says and holds her hand out for the Nerf ball. “Someone get ice on that pretty face of Derek’s,” she says over her shoulder as she stomps away. 

Stiles appears above him, offering him a hand.

“Big stupid jock,” he says with a grin as he pulls him up. He grabs a cold beer from the cooler and leads Derek toward the tiny little backstage bathroom. “Here.” He holds the beer against Derek’s face and laughs. “This might help.”

Derek sits up on the counter and bats the beer away. “It’s fine, I’m fine,” he disputes. 

Stiles shrugs and sets it down. 

“For the record, I haven’t been a big dumb jock since you kidnapped me.”

“Kidnapped,” Stiles scoffs. “Please, you were practically begging to come play with us.”

Derek shrugged. Stiles watched him wordlessly. “You haven’t been talking much,” Derek says, taking advantage of a burst of bravery and a closed door.

Stiles tapped his throat with one finger and smirked. 

“I mean, you’ve been talking, but not to me.”

“Not true.”

“Yes, true. It’s been weird since yesterday—”

“No it hasn’t!”

“—which is a shame because I feel like we came to a mutual, friendly place of understanding.”

Stiles nods. “We definitely did.”

Derek raises his eyebrows and smirks. Stiles rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t purposefully not talking to you, okay?” Stiles presses. 

“Okay.”

Derek can’t help but feel like history has somehow hit the reset button. Meeting Stiles had been a landmark moment in his life. Getting to know him had been an adventure. And falling for him had been… hard and then easy. He’d spent two years trying to forget all of it and then suddenly Stiles was there, leaning in the wrong doorway just as he’d been leaning on the wrong car, cigarette smoke in a cloud around his head, those piercing eyes, the thrilling hum of possibility vibrating through him… 

It took a month before Derek saw Stiles as gentle, or still, or quiet, or authentic. A whole month of gaping in fascination at this beautiful, wild, frenetic creature who always seemed to be one step away from serious bodily injury or juvenile delinquency. This time around, it had only taken from the time he sat down in his kitchen to the time he left.

Derek’s stomach feels like a black hole as he sits up on the counter with Stiles just outside arc of empty space between his knees. Derek can’t stop staring at his nostalgic little smile. Sad and loving, tinted golden with fondness.

“Why’d you even let us kidnap you in the first place?” he asks. Derek watches him drag the index finger of his braced hand down Derek’s knee before letting his hand fall to his side.

Derek shrugs. “It felt like the thing to do.” 

“I was teasing you, you realize?”

Derek laughs. “Of course I do.”

“Did you then?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to shut you up.” 

“Yeah? How’d that work?” Stiles asks.

“It didn’t.” 

“And your old friends gave up on you after that.”

“That’s what I wanted.”

Stiles nods, his face serious as he considers Derek. “Do you ever regret it?” he asks finally. 

“No.”

“Are you sure about that?” Stiles asks, a pained look on his face.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

His flirty smirk is back and he moves closer, hips breaching the space between his knees. Derek’s legs widen to accommodate him. Stiles’ eyes flick to Derek’s lips and back up. Derek can’t stop looking at his eyelashes. 

“What’s this?” Derek asks, leaning back against his arms.

“I don’t know.” Stiles steps even closer and rests his hands on the counter on either side of Derek, their noses almost touching. “Is it okay?”

Derek nods uselessly, his body rocking forward slightly. Stiles huffs a little laugh and closes the distance between them.

“Bad idea,” Derek mumbles before their lips touch.

“Terrible idea,” Stiles agrees.

Derek grabs Stiles’ face and pulls him into a kiss.

**

Stiles’ brain switches off as he kisses Derek back with no hesitation. He balls his hands into fists on the counter, trying to use the sharp pain in his knuckle to help him resist the urge to feel Derek under his palms. But he fails. He grabs Derek by the waist and pushes closer to him. He can taste Derek’s pre-show rum and coke on his tongue and he can feel the scrape of stubble against his mouth, but all other sensory detail is lost in a hazy fog. 

Derek’s uncertain, hesitant kissing melts into something slow and intentional and savory. It feels classic. Like standing inside the front door with a briefcase in hand announcing, “Honey, I’m home!” Like a studio audience should be erupting into cheers. 

Derek lets go of Stiles’ face to wrap his arms around him and draws in a breath as he does so. His thumb traces a shapeless path along his side. Everything is slow slow slow and Stiles is melting... He falls against him, lets out a little whimper, deepens the kiss. Derek’s solid body has some give to it, he remembers that, and he’s feeling it now. He feels Derek taking him in. 

Stiles slides his lips off of Derek’s and hides his face against his shoulder, and ends up hugging him. His heart racing in his chest. His breath ragged. Derek hugs him back, wordlessly.

There’s a loud banging at the door and Stiles springs away from him. “You’re on in five!” Greenberg thunders. 

“Okay, okay,” Stiles calls back before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and turning his back to Derek. 

He feels suddenly overwhelmed. He’d pictured this moment, sort of. He’d pictured getting Derek against a wall in some crowded bar somewhere. He’d pictured pinning him with his hips and biting his neck and sucking his lip and grinding against him. He’d imagined that Derek’s hands would pull at his hair and his teeth would clack against his and his knee would come up between Stiles’ legs and it’d all… hurt. Alcohol fueled punishment and lustful contrition. God knows Stiles deserved to be punished. For whatever he had done to drive Derek away, for not fighting for him, for letting the pain drown him. 

And fuck Derek for gutting him and letting him stand in the spotlight with a smile while he bled out. Fuck him. Stiles had wanted to suck bruises into his neck. He had wanted to leave a mark. Something angry and jagged. He’d imagined hurting him and being hurt by him.

And that? That hadn’t hurt. Not a bit. Soft edges and sweet touches and loving desperation and… fuck, Stiles had _whimpered_. Fuck.

Stiles finally turns back toward Derek and inspects his face in the mirror over his shoulder. He looks like he’s been kissed. He looks like he’s been kissing Derek. He reluctantly looks at Derek who watches him with a neutral, stoic expression. He looks like he’s been kissing too. The second they step out, everyone will know. 

And that’s fine. 

It’s fine.

Stiles would do it again, too, if the opportunity presented itself. The longer he looks at Derek, the more he wants to. He still can’t say a damn thing, but he can’t fight down the smile tugging at the corners of his lips either. Derek smiles too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Suit up boys, we're on vacation" is a lyric from Young London by Angels & Airwaves.
> 
> Punk Rock Princess is a Something Corporate song. (The Hyde Park cover)
> 
> First Day of My Life is a Bright Eyes song. (The YouTube memory cover)
> 
> I'm sorry I took so long to update, it's been a struggle wrangling this beast. Blame my impatience for any stupid mistakes/typos. 
> 
> Also, yes that aloe vera trick is a disgusting little godsend! Shout out to a former vocal director of mine for that nasty remedy.
> 
> As always thank you for reading and for all the lovins. <3


	15. British Tour Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

October 25th.  
Manchester, UK.

And then Derek had to go on stage. There was no other way to put it. Usually the climax of his day was the show. Sweaty, screaming, brightly lit spectacles. But this one felt like an afterthought. Like an obligation. Like an errand he had to run before he could get back to what he wanted to be doing. Like a pause in kissing Stiles Stilinski.

He was just lucky that the view was so good. 

Singing, shining faces looking up at them, sweat on their brows as they sang and danced, arms reaching for Stiles as he hovered around the edge of the stage. And Stiles was light on his feet as he ran around the stage and he could hardly stop smiling. He danced with Scott and climbed onto Lydia’s drum platform to get the audience to cheer for her even louder than they already were and he wrapped an arm around Derek’s shoulder and ruffled his hair.

When Stiles was like this, everyone played harder and better. The audience screamed louder. The ancient buildings they played in shook a little more. 

What a view.

**

They jog off stage laughing and panting, their voices echoing through the hallway on their way back to the green room. Stiles can still hear Manchester’s phantom cheering ringing in his ears. 

He strips off his sweat soaked shirt and collapses in the nearest chair. 

And this is the part where he wishes Derek would shove himself into Stiles’ personal space. Sit on his lap. Nuzzle his neck. Run his hands up and down Stiles’ ribs. Whenever Stiles’ smiles, he can feel Derek’s lips curving against him again. 

Instead he gets a lapful of Scott while Derek downs a bottle of water on the opposite side of the room. 

Scott looks over his shoulder at Stiles with a wrinkled nose. “You smell terrible,” he says.

Stiles laughs and wraps an arm around Scott’s sticky waist. “So do you.”

“I love you anyway,” Scott sighs as he settles back against him. 

“Love you too, asshole,” Stiles answers easily, smiling. 

His vision is lit up with the pure white of a camera flash. Allison grins at them over the top of a DSLR before walking away. 

When Lydia makes a bold claim for the shower, Scott springs off of Stiles to race her to it. They both go yelling and scrambling down the hallway, bodies hitting against the walls.

“Beer?” Derek asks, suddenly closer to him than before. He extends a can towards him like a peace offering.

“Thanks.”

Allison calls down the hall to tell Scott and Lydia to play nice before she heads off to the stage to take more pictures. And then the green room is silent. Royales is out by the merch booth meeting fans, as usual. They still have a couple hours before the bus is set to leave and for once Stiles doesn’t feel like he should be running off to his bunk. Derek sits in the closest chair and drags it a little closer.

“So…” he starts, watching as he traces his thumb around the lip of his can.

“Yeah.”

“You uh… good show.”

“You uh… too,” Stiles answers, a slow smirk spreading over his face as he watches Derek.

He looks up, not exactly smiling but close enough. 

And then there’s a pause so substantial that it makes Stiles feel like the air is expanding around them, filling every empty space, making everything heavy… And then Derek clears his throat.

“So, did I earn it?” he asks, looking up at Stiles with an almost sheepish expression.

“Earn what?” Stiles asks.

“The kiss. Did I earn it?”

Derek at 17, face flushed and lips shining and eyes gone soft and sweet, flashes in Stiles’ mind before he settles on a response. “No, but I did.”

**

January 27th, 2011.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

They had been avoiding each other at school, not really talking at band practices, and they absolutely hadn’t been hanging out alone. Not since they’d almost kissed. When they were together, they always ended up arguing. Like there was something in the air, something that made them cagey and defensive.

After a failed study session with Paige, Derek sat in his car feeling… heavy as a rock. He started the car. He released the parking brake. He pulled out of his parking spot. Got on the road. Everything felt deliberate. He meant to go home, but turned down the street to the Stilinskis instead. Rote, instinctual, important.

“Are we talking again?” Stiles asked when he slid his window open for Derek to climb in.

“I don’t know, are we?”

“You’re the one climbing in my window.” 

“Well if you weren’t blasting Say Anything too loud to hear the doorbell…”

Stiles sighed dramatically and paused the music. “What do you want?” he asked, arms crossed.

“I don’t want this to be awkward anymore.”

“You’re the one who made it awkward,” Stiles argued, flopping down in his desk chair.

“Uh, if I remember correctly—“

“You were the one who dared me to kiss you. Don’t you forget about that.”

“I… good point, but… listen, I have a lot to lose here. Paige is great for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And… I don’t know, I was just confused and… it meant nothing, okay?”

Stiles smirked. “Sure.”

“And I know you said you have a crush on me but… that’s okay. I’m not going to be weird about it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and groaned as he spun in his chair. “Forget I ever said anything, DerBear. I have a crush on everybody.”

“Stop acting as if what happened wasn’t a big deal,” Derek argued, inexplicably jealous. He didn’t want Stiles to have a crush on everybody. And if he were being honest with himself, he’d have to admit he’d been holding Stiles’ confession like a badge… He felt himself blushing.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles squeaked. “It _wasn’t_ a big deal.”

Derek didn’t know where he was going with this. He just knew that he wanted to see Stiles’ cheeks flushed with color, his eyes bright with opposition. “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“I’ve been avoiding your gay panic. It’s exhausting.”

Derek stepped closer to him, feeling genuinely embarrassed. It hadn’t been that, not really… Derek had felt like he bared a part of him that wasn’t ready for public consumption. A part of him that not even Stiles was ready to see. A part of him that he hadn't even really known about himself. He had been too honest, and Stiles had been too honest back and… “I wasn’t—“

“God, shut up. Just go.” He sounded tired as he pushed himself to stand. He tried to usher Derek toward the door. “Let’s just move on with our lives, alright? You had a moment of weakness, you’ve been panicking, I’ve been avoiding you, it’s been awkward, now you’re here, we’ve talked about it, bingo bango, back to normal. Now go.”

Derek dug his heels into the floor and Stiles continued toward the door without him. Stiles turned around and leveled him with a glare. Derek wanted to sculpt the angry set of his jaw, wanted to trace the slopes of his face with his fingers. Fuck. 

“Stiles,” Derek started, going for calm. As calm as he be could under the circumstances. As calm as he could be when his hands were aching to reach out for him. Stiles’ glare fell away to reveal an open, wounded expression for just a second. 

“Bye.” He crossed his arms and widened his stance. Derek moved toward him, and for every step forward he took, Stiles took another backwards step toward the door.

“Stiles, listen—“

“I said we’re fine, you can go.” His tone was clipped but firm. 

Derek took another calculated step forward, entering into Stiles’ space. “Stiles.”

“Out the window, out the door…” he said, voice faltering.

Derek took another step. “Listen…”

“Up the chimney… just…” His voice was softer now, the air losing traction in his throat and sliding out in a rough whisper.

“Stiles, please listen,” Derek said, crowding him against the door. Stiles jerked his head toward his shoulder and down, hiding his face.

Derek hesitated for a breathless moment. Calm, calm, be calm… He felt a part of him crumple, somewhere, as he took Stiles in. This human, this fragile thing who played indestructible… Derek didn’t want him to hide his face from him now, especially not now. He wanted to see him admit his frailty with courage. He didn’t like a timid Stiles, it made him feel lost… Vulnerable Stiles, though… Derek had never quite seen this, never quite felt _want_ quite like this. So in that long little moment, Derek decided to slowly reach his hand out to touch Stiles’ chin, to guide his face back to him.

Stiles’ eyes shot up to meet his, eyebrow raising. Derek held his gaze for a moment before Stiles knocked his hand off his chin and tried to get away. “Get out of my house.” This time he said it with a nervous laugh. 

Derek was tempted to listen, but Stiles looked so lost. This was the boy who told Mr. Harris that he would do _anything_ (with a demure little shrug) for an extension on the homework. This was the boy who walked down the hall with a gravitational pull. The object of secret crushes, the mysterious one, the one who skipped class to smoke cigarettes in the Preserve, the trendsetter, the anti-hero… Derek crumpled further, his tense-muscled resolve sapping out of him. He gently knocked Stiles’ hand away, grabbed his face in both hands and inspected him.

“Wha—“ Stiles began before Derek leaned forward and kissed him as softly as he could manage. 

And Stiles did nothing at first, his lips soft and motionless under Derek’s. But he rocked forward when Derek made a move to pull away in embarrassment. His arms snaked around Derek’s waist to keep him close and Derek felt security roaring in him. And he felt fiercely protective as he pressed even closer against him. And he felt… a lot of nebulous things that were fading into the background of his mind when Stiles bit Derek’s lip and tightened his grip around him.

Derek felt his control start to slip, like he and gravity were at an impasse, like he was hovering a few inches off the floor. He slid his lips off of Stiles’ to rest against his cheek for just a fraction of a second. Long enough to inhale his familiar scent and to exhale before lining their faces up, forehead-to-forehead, nose-to-nose. He could feel Stiles’ frantic pulse through the palms of his hands.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, finishing the question from before. One hand came up to loop around Derek’s wrist as if to keep his hands from leaving the sides of his face. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No. What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek stuttered, avoiding the question.

“I um… it’s okay. But seriously, Derek, I am freaking out here.”

“Me too.”

“So answer me.”

“I kissed you.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Because I wanted to. Been wanting to.”

“Oh.”

A couple beats passed without Derek attempting to speak again. 

“And…?” Stiles prompted.

“Did I earn it?” Derek asked, remembering what Stiles had said the week before. He pulled away finally so Stiles could see him smirking.

The corners of Stiles’ lips dipped in the way they did before he couldn’t help but smile. 

**

**Current.**

“Can I ask you what that was all about then?” Derek asked, not entirely sure that he wanted the answer.

“It was pretty self-explanatory.”

“Nothing with you is self-explanatory.”

“Not true,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “You still think I’m this… interesting, mysterious thing. I’m not.”

“Sure, fine. So then why’d you do it?”

“I just wanted to.” He dips his head bashfully and laughs. “Been wanting to.”

“Oh.” Derek can work with that, even if somewhere buried deep within his rational self is telling him not to. “Cool.”

“Why did you—?” Stiles begins, but singing from the hallway makes him stop.

Scott reappears then, shaggy hair dripping all over his fresh shirt. “Stop flirting long enough to shower so we can go meet fans,” he demands, raising a suspicious eyebrow at them, hands on his hips.

“Ugh, you’re so embarrassing, Dad,” Stiles groans as he gets up to obey him.

“Because I wanted to,” Derek blurts, making Scott look at him in confusion. Stiles stops to look at him and nods. He turns before the tell-tale downward dip of his lips can form a smile.

**

October 27th.  
En route to Glasgow, Scotland.

“We can’t do that again,” Stiles says, nodding too much. The more he nods, the more he can convince himself. Maybe. Not really. And it’s not that they have, not since Manchester. Leeds was too hectic with too many friends showing up and insisting on a bar crawl. And now here they were, still buzzing from the night out in the wee morning hours, headed into yet another country. 

“Fine,” Derek says, not even looking up from his book.

“Because they’ll revolt, you know,” Stiles continues, gesturing toward the back lounge where the rest of them are. “They’ll leave us both on the side of the road.”

“I said it was fine.”

“Right.”

Stiles is disappointed. He had hoped for a longing look or a sad sigh or a resigned smile. And he was getting nothing. Derek was perfectly unreadable. Or was he? Was he perfectly, completely legible? He seemed disinterested, so was he? Fuck. 

Stiles crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, watching as Derek keeps his eyes on his book. What feels like at least a mile slips by in silence. The ride to Glasgow is already half over and they have a hotel in their near future. The window of opportunity, of Stiles and Derek’s forced proximity, is nearing a close.

“What are you reading?” Stiles asks, desperate to talk about anything.

Derek lifts the book so he can see.

“The Big Short?” Stiles spits.

“It’s about the housing bubble—“

“I know what it’s about and it’s boring.”

“Whoa, what do you mean boring?” Derek looks up, incredulous. “It’s important—“

“It’s so boring, it is so, so boring.”

“This book is about something that still defines our economic climate—“

“Oh my god, _you_ are so boring!”

Derek’s outrageous irritation slowly shifts to a genuine smile. “This is coming from the person who thinks Bonfire of the Vanities is boring.”

“Boring but good, Derek. I said it was boring… but good.” Derek shakes his head and turns his attention back to his book. Stiles wants to pounce on him, rip the book from his hands and force him to argue some more. And then realization settles over him…“But wait, how’d you know I thought it was boring? We weren’t even talking when I read it…”

Derek’s cheeks flush and he refuses to look up. “You tweeted about it,” he mumbles. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, waits for him to look up as he knows he will. Derek clears his throat and very slowly shifts his eyes to look at him.

“Interesting,” Stiles finally says. “I was under the impression that—“

“Shut up,” Derek says, shaking his head.

“—You had unfollowed me—“

“I did.”

“And stopped caring about—“

“Shut up, just stop.” There’s a frantic, nervous edge to his voice. “You know that isn’t true.” 

“I don’t, actually. I don’t know that that’s not true,” Stiles argues, his voice rising in sudden anger.

Derek closes his book with a snap and sets it aside. “Fine.”

Stiles wants to argue but he’s struck speechless in the face of Derek’s authority. And that was it. The case was closed. A classic Hale tactic. And he hates it. He hates that he can turn it on and off like it’s attached to a goddamn light switch. He hates that he has the capacity to be so open and then suddenly so closed off. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles hisses just to blow off some of the fury buzzing in him.

“So are you,” Derek says, stoic and challenging.

That’s why it had always worked. Not that Stiles will ever say that out loud. Because the one person who could match Stiles point for point in any argument, who could bicker for days on end while still loving him, who could see all the ugly in him without having to make excuses or help him cover it up… had always been Derek. And even when it wasn’t Derek, it was still only Derek. If that made sense. 

Stiles’ face must have gone soft as he held Derek’s gaze, thinking, because Derek leaned forward and grabbed his hand.

“You can think whatever you want and I can’t change your mind, I already know that. But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

And with that, he drops his hand, stands, turns, tosses a little wave over his shoulder and leaves.

**

October 28th.  
Belfast, Northern Ireland.

“So… You haven’t kissed him since?” Erica asks. 

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Stiles picks up another hunk of concrete and chucks it off into the water. “No time.”

“No time? Bullshit.”

“I mean, no time away from other people? No real opportunity for it? You have to admit that kiss was the result of an alignment of stars. We really seized the moment there.”

“This coming from the guy who somehow found time to—“

“You cannot apply any past sexual experiences to me and Derek, you just can’t.”

“You don’t even know where I was going with that.”

“I don’t need to know,” Stiles says with a sigh. “And anyway, it’s like I’m getting to know him all over again. I don’t know what to do next.”

“I’m just saying that if this was some nameless guy in some wherever city, you’d have had him in a bathroom stall by now—“

“It’s different. Totally different. History, potential feelings involved, et cetera.”

“Yeah, you fucked my ex without knowing him at all so…”

Stiles stutters for a second, stops, and narrows his eyes at her. “No I didn’t!”

Erica laughs. “But you had to think about it. And that proves my point.”

“What kind of friend are you?”

“The kind that had to try really hard not to cry overjoyed fangirl tears when you told me about you and Derek.”

“You disgust me,” Stiles sighs, lobbing another rock into the sluggish river. “It’s such a bad idea. This whole thing. But he’s… him. And I don’t think there is anyone else for me, and sometimes that sucks but then other times that’s fine. I really don’t need to be dragging anyone else into my shit. But if I had to drag someone, I’d drag him—“

“You’re rambling.”

“What I’m trying to say is that… I don’t know what to do.”

Erica toes at a fairly large chunk of concrete before shoving it over the edge of the dock. It falls into the water with a satisfying plop. “I feel like Scott or Lydia would be more helpful.”

“Do you want to see this band go from tenuous harmony to utter chaos in mere seconds? Because that’s what would happen if I told them.”

She hmms thoughtfully, turning away from the river and toward the venue. Stiles brushes his hands off on his jeans and follows her gaze to where everyone else is gathered, playing something. “Well, what do you want?” she asks finally.

He focuses in on the distant echo of a bouncing ball, feet scrambling on asphalt. He hears Lydia call foul and he hears Scott’s resulting displeasure. He sees Derek hoist Lydia up into the air, her red hair flashing in the sunlight as she struggles. And they’re laughing, laughing, laughing… And in it, he finds the answer.

“I just want them to be happy.”

“What about yourself?”

“I want to be happy too.”

“With Derek or without him?”

“Either way.”

“And which way would you prefer?”

Stiles stays silent for awhile, chewing on the inside of his lip. Lydia is fully draped over Derek’s shoulder now, Scott holding her ankles together so she doesn’t kick. And he knows that in the ideal version of his life, they’re all there. They’re all in it. For the long haul. And he knows that before Derek was back, all he had to hold on to were Lydia and Scott. And he knows that he had been close to losing them. Closer, at least, than now. And he knows that Derek is helping. Somehow. 

“With him,” Stiles finally admits. 

Erica grins and pulls him into a hug.

**

October 29th.  
Dublin, Ireland.

Derek loves theaters. And arenas. And venues in general. He loves the way they seem to echo with energy. The silence in them always rings. He likes their ghosts. He loves hearing local crew members talk about seeing them in the booth or up in the catwalks. He likes to imagine that theater ghosts aren’t like other ghosts – he likes to think that they’ve chosen to stay there. Free, all-access passes to everything for the rest of time? Sounds a little like heaven.

He sits in the empty house now, up on the terrace. He hears Jackson and Danny’s voices intermingling with gruff Irish accents and outbursts of laughter. He watches the arrays get hoisted into place. He feels at home. 

Derek’s distracted when he finally tries to head back to the green room and finds himself in a shockingly corporate hallway. He can hear Allison’s voice coming from the room straight ahead. 

He walks forward until he can see through the half-open door. Allison’s phone is laying face-up on the high-gloss conference table. Her shoulder swings in and out of view as she spins back and forth.

“What is this London business?” a tinny, speakerphone Chris Argent asks.

“What do you mean?”

“How did Stiles get hurt?”

“I don’t know, it happened post-show. He’s fine.”

Argent lets out a frustrated sound somewhere in his swanky Los Angeles office. “Your band is in a very precarious position right now—“

“They were fucking around at a bar and then they were all fucking around in a hotel room, all I know is that Stiles hurt his hand doing something stupid. Why does it even matter?”

“The fact that you’re asking me that question… Allison, if something surfaces, anything like… Stiles punching out a roadie or getting into a bar scuffle or… who knows—“

“Nothing is going to surface. He’s fine, he’s not even wearing the brace anymore. And for the first time in awhile, things are going well. Just let me handle my band my own way and if things keep going like this maybe we’ll be able to keep them. I’ll be able to keep them.”

“Allison, I know you’re good at what you do but—“

“You need to trust me.” She says it with an earnest desperation that makes her father sigh deeply on the other end.

“Alright,” Argent says. “Keep me updated.”

“I will.”

They exchange farewells and Derek watches Allison’s hand reach out to end the call.

“I know you’re out there,” Allison says, twisting around to look at him. “You’re not very good at hiding.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide,” Derek argues as he steps into the room. “Something’s telling me you’re keeping a lot of secrets, Allison Argent.” 

“Kind of like keeping your departure secret from the band, for instance,” Allison agrees with a threatening smile. She kicks the seat next to her toward him and he sits.

“Stiles’ O.D., for another.”

“He told you?” she asks, eyebrow raised. “Or did someone else?”

“He did. Kinda.”

“In what context?” she asks.

“A conversation between old friends.”

“Old lovers. Another secret I’ve kept.” She knocks her knuckles against Derek’s bent knee. “Speaking of which, what are you two up to, huh?” 

“Nothing.”

“Not yet.”

“Never.”

She just laughs at that. 

“Give me more credit,” Derek argues.

“You’ve woken up in his bed twice since tour started.”

“How’d you know that?”

“C’mon, Derek. I am omniscient.”

Derek narrows his eyes at her, trying to think of a way to best her. All he comes up with is: “You totally want us back together.” 

He doesn’t even know why he says it. Maybe to see if she does. He wants to see if there’s anyone out there that will somehow indicate that his own desires are right… or wrong. If she cringed or if her eyes widened in horror, then he was wrong. If she nodded and gushed and glowed, then maybe he was right. 

“God, no. You two were PR nightmares.” But she’s smiling. 

“So you know everything, huh?” Derek teases.

“I know a lot.”

“What other kinds of secrets do you have?”

“All kinds. Embarrassing ailments, family drama, legal troubles… much contested sexualities…” She kicks his chair for emphasis on the last bit.

He’s not too surprised, but he still feels his face flush anyway. “How?” he asks. When he was still in the band, still with Stiles, it had been hazy and mutable. He’d only ever been with girls and Stiles, how was he supposed to know?

“Who do you think has kept your life nice and quiet, huh?” Her voice has gone from playful to honest. 

Derek had never really given much thought to that. He flew under the radar a lot, never got any media inquiries after the initial onslaught... “I’m a former member of a band that has gone on to be more successful without me, what sort of protection would I have ever needed?” he asks.

Allison shook her head, the corner of her lips twitching upward. “Sure,” she acquiesces. “So when did you figure it out?” she asks, clearly not letting the sexuality thing go.

“After.”

“After?”

“After him.” _Him_ He saw on her face that she understood. 

“Meaning?” she pressed.

“Meaning when I could have probably gotten any girl I wanted, I didn’t want any of them. At first I thought I was trying to just fill the void, or whatever, but uh… I stopped going for the ones who looked like him after awhile. I uh… grew into it.”

She nods thoughtfully, tapping her fingers against the edge of the table. 

“How’d you find out?” Derek asks.

“Shut down a tabloid story, did a little digging of my own. I just followed their sources. It checked out.”

“Oh.” He’s dealing with those waves of shock as they come. “I didn’t think you still cared.”

She gives him a look that’s probably identical to the one Derek gave Stiles on the way to Glasgow. He smiles through the astounding hurt of it. 

Derek wonders why he didn’t jump to the conclusion that she’d just done it to save the band’s reputation. He wonders why he didn’t assume it was a self-serving motion. But his trust in her has never faltered, probably never would. 

“Ally A. saves the day, I guess,” he says when he can speak again.

Allison laughs. “Told you,” she whispers with the thrill of conspiracy in her voice. 

“Thanks.” And he means it.

“Of course. Now, let’s get you to sound check.”

When they get back to the stage Stiles and Erica are singing, their voices cushioned by their own echoes, the acoustics of the empty space casting their voices in honey. They sit on the stage floor, Stiles’ guitar on his lap, and even the roadies have stopped to watch. Even Jackson.

Allison squeezes Derek’s elbow and kisses him on the cheek before she walks away.

And even though the song sounds so mournful, they look happy. Like two little songbirds sitting on a wire, about to take flight..

“Our love was made for movie screens,” Erica croons, at once smoky and dulcet. 

And Stiles lifts his head, his eyes finding Derek’s almost immediately. And he doesn’t have a second to react before he joins Erica on the chorus.

When they finish, the roadies go back to getting them ready for sound check, Erica hops off the stage and goes to sit with the twins in the row of seats beyond the pit. 

Stiles walks up to Derek to set his acoustic down. 

“Is that the cover tonight?” Derek asks.

“That? No. We’re doing Franz Ferdinand. Remember them?” He flashes a grin and then he walks away.

**

October 31st.  
Paris, France.

Stiles wakes up with Scott’s face a little too close for comfort and elbows him in the ribs. When he jolts away, he sends an acoustic guitar clattering unkindly to the floor.

“Baby,” Scott wails, hanging over the edge of the bed to assess the damage.

Stiles stretches and yawns and peels a loose sheet of paper off his leg. He can hear French being spoken at a news reporter cadence on the TV and easy conversation out in the suite’s living room. 

They flew into Paris the day before, leaving the buses and trucks to their own arduous twelve hour journey. They made sure Erica saw the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and they ate heartily and lazed around the hotel suite. They even jammed. They actually jammed. Lydia made a drum set out of books and end tables and lampshades and Scott dug out his acoustic and everyone sang. Allison had recorded them singing Third Eye Blind and One Direction and The Beatles and Michael Jackson and silly made up things. And Stiles is smiling.

“Is she okay?” Stiles asks when Scott rolls back into bed, clutching his guitar to his chest.

“She’s fine.”

“Was this one a keeper?” Stiles asks, handing Scott the paper he had peeled off of himself. They had stayed up so late, Stiles couldn’t even remember the foggy edges of the previous day anymore.

They had written last night. Like, they actually sat down together and wrote _songs_. Everyone headed off to bed and Scott and Stiles hadn’t been able to stop. 

“I don’t remember,” Scott says, adding it to the pile on the bedside table.

The door swings open suddenly, revealing Lydia. 

“The gentlemen of La Bête do so cordially invite us to their annual Halloween party tonight and we need to go to breakfast now, the crew’s waiting. Up, up!” Lydia commands.

Stiles and Scott both do a lot of grumbling as they climb out of bed. Lydia doesn’t uncross her arms and leave until Scott yanks his shirt over his head and begins his search for a clean one.

“Dude,” Scott exclaims suddenly, only halfway into a clean pair of pants. Stiles pauses in tugging on his jacket to look at him. “A La Bête party,” he says with wonderment in his voice.

“Just like old times,” Stiles says through a grin. 

“I’m already not ready for this hangover.” 

In the car on the way to breakfast, everyone reminisces about their time touring with La Bête, filling Royales in on the sorts of debauchery they should expect for the night. Stiles listens, contributes when necessary, and avoids staring at Derek’s bed head by staring at his phone instead. 

He doesn’t have the attention span for Twitter or the patience for Instagram, so he ends up scrolling through his Notes app. He’s surprised to see something from early that morning.

_I can still feel the wind, sweeping its way around the arrondissement and bearing against me. I can still see the back of your neck over the collar of your coat. There’s a song that makes me fall in love with you every single time I hear it, and I can hear it now in the hollows of my lungs – echoing like a great cathedral. The highs in the firmament, the lows in the bellows. France is always beautiful but when you’re in it… It’s miraculous. It takes everything in me not to snake my arm through yours, or to slip my hand into your pocket to leach your heat. I am shivering and remembering the first time I knew you loved me. This song playing over your car speakers as I shook beside you. You turned on the heater and I knew. The boy so practical he would freeze to death to save gas… turned frivolous for me. You always made me feel so anchored, you said I always made you feel buoyant. The first time I kissed you I thought you’d float away while my feet turned to roots right there in my childhood bedroom… “This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization. It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away. Your love will be safe with me...”_

“Why are you blushing?” Lydia asks, tearing Stiles’ attention away from his screen. 

“Nuh-n-nothing. I’m not,” he stammers, quickly deleting it and shoving his phone into his pocket.

“Aw, did you come across that picture of you photoshopped into—“

“NO,” Stiles barks, shuddering. “Scott, you know we don’t talk about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY NOTES.
> 
> My British Tour Diary is an Of Montreal song.
> 
> The Say Anything song I envision Derek interrupting is The Futile (SHIT NOTHING MAKES SENSE SO I WON'T THINK ABOUT ITTT. The jammiest jam of my adolescence.)
> 
> Erica and Stiles are singing All I Want by Kodaline before their sound check in Dublin.
> 
> The Franz Ferdinand Dublin cover is Take Me Out. 
> 
> The song referred to in Stiles' awkward stream of consciousness note is Re:Stacks by Bon Iver.
> 
> Uhhh what else... The Big Short is a book by Michael Lewis, and it is a daunting piece of nonfiction. I don't _necessarily_ recommend it?
> 
> And I originally had more happening in Belfast (and then I scrapped pretty much everything and started over lol) but the thing remaining from that is the venue -- I stared at a million pictures of the Belfast Waterfront so that river they're chucking stuff into is River Lagan.
> 
> I PROMISE TO YOU that the next chapter will be coming within the next week. Expect a rating change. :X
> 
> Your comments and kudos make me the happiest person alive, so thank you so much for all of that. I'm glad you guys are enjoying this beast. <3


	16. Arms Around Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!WARNINGS!!  
>  If you're sensitive to mentions of gore (in the form of a little ghost story telling), skip the long paragraphs of speech in the attic. 
> 
> PLAYLISTS, SONG RECS, ETC: You know the deal by know. :3

October 31st.  
Paris, France.

The first time, Stiles couldn’t stop looking at Derek the entire day leading up to it. Coach had put yet another strike under “Stilinski Will Join Cross Country” on the chalkboard for not paying attention. One more strike and he would be bidding adieu to some of his favorite afterschool activities. Or at the very least, rescheduling them. He’d spilled Lydia’s Naked juice all over her at lunch and nearly didn't live to tell the tale. He’d almost set Scott on fire in chemistry. (Bunsen burners and Derek Hale proved dangerous on many other occasions throughout Stiles’ high school education, actually.) 

After school, they’d had band practice but Stiles and Derek had stopped on their way over to Lydia’s to enthusiastically suck face. And they ended practice early, citing Stiles’ ADHD. 

It hadn’t been planned. They hadn’t discussed a single thing. It had been some sort of fate thing. Or at least, that’s what Stiles would maintain until the day he died. They hadn’t been able to resist each other's gravitational pull any longer. 

And today, Stiles can’t stop staring.

After breakfast, they’re shuffled off to do some press. Stiles remembers talking to the lovely girl with the thick French accent, but he couldn’t repeat a thing he said if he had to. He was focused on Derek, wearing his damn glasses and a cable knit sweater and grinning. Allison had nudged him afterward and commended him on a glowing interview, so he must have been grinning too. 

And now, Stiles is smiling at Derek but singing love songs to Scott. He has his hand on his best friend’s cheek as he sings. 

“Okay, okay,” Jackson says over the PA system. “We get it.”

“Jackson’s jealous,” Derek says into his mic. 

“Uh huh.” Stiles can hear the eye roll in his voice.

**

Stiles looks great tonight. Old, faded black skinny jeans and a loose-fitting v-neck great. So great. And smiley. He’d been full of life and energy all day, from breakfast to interviews to sound check to now. Effortlessly devastating.

He’s already covered in a sheen of sweat as he addresses the audience after the first song.

“Paris, je t’aime. And that’s all the French I know. Happy Halloween,” Stiles says, holding his arms out to the audience while his guitar hangs around his neck.

“Omelette du fromage,” Scott says with his mouth way too close to the mic. 

“Is that all the French you know, Scotty?” Stiles asks, looking over at him.

“Yeah,” he answers with a sunny smile. “Pretty much.”

“Derek? You have anything?” 

“Uh… Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” Derek says, looking over at Stiles. He wiggles his eyebrows at him as the audience goes wild. Stiles laughs and hides his face in the crook of his elbow. Derek wants to walk over to him, but he busies himself with nudging his pedals around with his foot.

“Well?” Lydia implores from behind them. “Give the man an answer.”

“Oui, of course,” Stiles answers. He plays a quick little riff on his guitar while he laughs at the audience’s screaming. “Lydia. French. Speak some.”

Derek is too busy biting down a smile while Lydia rattles off a quick speech of perfectly spoken French. Stiles turns his back to the audience so it looks like he’s watching Lydia, but he’s shooting a fond glance toward Derek. Derek plucks out a few notes and half turns to face him. 

“Beautiful,” Scott says over the cheering when Lydia finishes. “I have no idea what you just said.”

“Well, that’s between me and them, then,” Lydia told him haughtily. 

Stiles lifts a suggestive eyebrow at Derek and turns back toward the audience and starts wandering around the stage.

“We extend our unending gratitude to all of you for joining us tonight. We always love playing here, you guys are insane.” 

Derek can feel Stiles’ eyes on him as he gets closer, but he doesn’t look up. 

“Don’t we love Paris?” Stiles asks, snaking an arm around Derek’s waist. He’s shifted his guitar to his back so the neck of it softly bounces against Derek without hitting his bass Derek smirks when the cheering goes up in volume.

“We do,” he answers.

“Are you guys going to go nuts every time I touch Derek?” Stiles asks the audience. “Yeah? I’ll keep that in mind.” He releases Derek’s waist and ruffles his hair as he walks back to center stage. 

**

It’s already late by the time they pull up to a massive house on the outskirts of Paris, but the place is still crawling with activity. Jean-Paul and Luc, La Bete’s lead singer and guitarist, bounce out the front door seconds after Stiles texts them to tell them they’ve arrived.

After a quick round of hugs and introducing them to Erica and the twins, they get pulled inside and taken to a cluster of couches in the house’s ballroom. Their dark-eyed, lavender haired drummer greats them with a high pitched squeal. Lydia immediately vaults herself onto the couch to hug her. 

“Derek!” Margot exclaims after releasing Lydia. She stands up and pulls him into a tight hug. It’s then that Stiles realizes they haven’t seen him since Smokes opened for them three years ago. She kisses him briefly before falling back onto the couch, slapping the spot in between her and Lydia until he sits.

Stiles carefully steps around their legs to sit on the other side of Margot, but she catches him and pulls him down into their laps. Stiles’ hip makes sharp contact with Derek’s knee on the way down and he laughs as Margot squeezes his cheeks together and pulls him in for a kiss.

“Baby,” Margot coos, stroking his face. “We were in London the day after you left, we were very sad to miss you.”

Stiles twists in their laps until he’s laying on his back, preferring not to have his crotch against Derek’s thigh. When he’s settled, Derek ever so casually rests an arm across Stiles’ stomach. 

“And you brought Derek back to me,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. “What a gift!”

“You are so drunk,” Stiles tells her. She laughs and ducks to kiss him again, just a tad longer this time. Stiles laughs when she pulls away.

“You need to catch up,” she says when she lifts her head. She reaches for the closest bottle and wiggles it over Stiles’ face. “Shots?” she asks, grinning.

**

From up in the attic, the party sounds almost tame. Music vibrates the floor below them, but feels miles away. They sit in a circle, smoke hanging lazily around them in the air. They’d all put back quite a few drinks before they’d been roped into smoking. Derek was starting to feel it now, halfway through a gruesome story about a serial killer who used the Reign of Terror as a cover for his murderous deeds and his faithful wife.

“She waited,” Jean-Paul says, his voice pitched low for effect. “As he asked her to. As Paris succumbed to chaos, as the blade of the guillotine fell and fell and fell, as heads rolled…” A dramatic pause.

Derek’s eyes shift from Jean-Paul to Lydia to Stiles and he lingers there. Stiles has his long fingers wrapped around the mouth piece, his head bent, inhaling slowly. Jean-Paul’s story rattles on, but Derek can only focus on one thing at a time and right now that one thing is Stiles and his hands and the idea of his mouth open and breathing smoke…

Stiles looks up at last, the corner of his lips lifting flirtatiously at Derek. His amber eyes glint in the dim light of the attic. When he lets the smoke out, it rolls over his lips. Derek wants to crawl across the circle to catch it in his mouth before letting his lips crash against him… 

“One night, like every other night before it, she stood here, watching out the window, praying for his return. She closed her eyes for just a second, and when she opened them there was a dark figure approaching the house. Her heart leapt up into her throat, tears sprung up in her eyes, she thought she recognized the silhouette but there was something wrong… And then the figure was gone. 

"But then she heard something coming up the stairs. Draaag, step. Draaag, step. A sound she had heard so many times before, a sound she heard as she pressed her eyes closed and waited for her husband to dispose of his victims, a sound she pretended not to understand. Draaag, step. It paused at the door. Any hope she had felt when seeing the silhouette had been turned to horror. Her husband had always warned her not to meddle in his business….”

Derek sees Stiles shoot a nervous look toward the very door Jean-Paul refers to and tries not to laugh at him. The room is dead silent aside from his voice and the bong’s cheery bubbling as people take hits. 

“Whatever it was knocked. “Who is it?” she called out. It knocked again. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice more frantic…”

Erica nudges Derek with her elbow and passes the bong to him. He feels Stiles’ eyes on him as he flicks the lighter and bends his head over it. He closes his eyes as he inhales, relishing in the way the smoke curls up in his lungs and seems to slowly diffuse into his head. 

“…the door slammed open but she saw nothing there… and then there it was again. Draaag, step… draaaap, step… she saw shoulders… and then a chest… where the head should have been, there was just darkness. Draaag, step… draaag, step… every step revealed more. His blood-stained clothes, his torn and tattered body… the top of a head… she shrunk back against the window, too afraid to scream. Draaag, step… his clouded, unseeing eyes… his mouth, open in a silent, unending scream… his severed neck leaking blood against his chest as he held it...”

Derek holds the smoke in his lungs and hands the bong off to Scott. He lets it out when his eyes meet Stiles’ across the circle. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back against his hands. He tilts his head back to blow the rest out, knowing that Stiles’ won’t be able to help but stare at his neck. 

“…the next morning, the maid opened the attic door. In the middle of the floor, right where we’re sitting, was a pool of blood. The woman was gone. It wasn’t until months later that her body was discovered rotting in the floor boards, her crudely severed head in her arms, her face contorted in fear… Next to her was a blood stained bag, full of the body parts of a dozen different victims. This house hasn’t had a steady owner since. There are stories stretching back hundreds of years of two figures lurking in the halls… in the basement… in the attic where we now sit… figures who hold their heads in their hands, who leave their blood wherever they walk... At night, the halls echo with the screams of the man’s victims.”

Someone thumps their fist against the attic door and it swings open. 

“Are you telling them the one about the—“ Guy begins, but his voice is lost in a chorus of screaming. Jean-Paul and Derek both laugh. “Oh, La Terreur lovers?” 

“Excellent timing, friend,” Jean-Paul says cordially as he makes room in the circle for his bassist.

“Asshole,” Stiles spits, still white as a sheet. 

“It’s all true! It’s hard to find a home not haunted in Paris, there are more dead than there are alive here. Probably. Or something like that.” He giggles at himself, leaning heavily against Guy. 

“Of course,” Lydia grumbles. 

“Nah, you know, I think I can feel that energy here. Like… so much has happened in this house, there has to be a ghost or two at least,” Scott says, his voice taking on that hazy wonderment that pot gives him.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to get out of this attic,” Stiles announces as he stands.

“But I just got here!” Guy argues.

“Well if you’re leaving, Stiles, there’s a special keg for us in the wine cellar, in the basement. Could you bring it up for us?” Luc suggests.

“Oh, in the haunted basement?” Stiles clarifies.

“Well, if you’re afraid of a little ghost story…”

**

Stiles has no clue where he’s going in this place. Everywhere he turns, he just sees another hallway of shining wood floors and decadent Baroque ornamentation on the walls… and ceilings… and furniture and doors… He can only tell that he’s making progress because the loud thumping music and constant chatter gets more distant the more he searches. 

Okay, so maybe this was not the best idea after all. The floor creaks ahead of him, just around a dark corner, and Stiles doesn’t exactly yell but… it’s a close thing.

By God, he will find the fabled wine cellar full of kegs, regardless of any ghouls. 

And Jean-Paul is full of shit, obviously. His story had been convincing – the house was _hundreds_ of years old, the French Revolution probably had happened while it was standing. The timeline might have checked out, as far as Stiles knew, but ghosts? Nah. 

Anything is convincing over a bong anyway. 

Stiles hadn’t even heard the whole story. He’d been too busy watching Derek. Every time their eyes had met, they lingered there. Derek’s eyes had been dark in the dim light, his dark stubble sculpted his face into something severe and beautiful, his breath intermingling with smoke, his chest expanding as he took a hit, his bared neck, his hands, his shoulders…

A hand falls on his shoulder and he jumps, cursing. He spins and comes face to face with Derek.

“You’re going to break your neck tripping down the fucking stairs—“

“Wow, fuck you,” Stiles laughs, clutching his chest.

Derek flashes him a toothy grin, clearly very pleased with himself. “Where’s the basement?”

“Downstairs.”

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh and starts to pull Stiles by the wrist.

“You don’t know where you’re going either,” Stiles points out. Derek’s hand is still tight around his wrist as he yanks him forward a little. But hey, this way the ghosts will behead him before they’ll behead Stiles… if that’s even their ghostly MO. Stiles had been resisting the urge to crawl across the circle and climb into Derek’s lap at that point in the story, probably… God, the material of Derek’s shirt clung to his chest in all the right ways and…

They turn a corner and Stiles bumps into a tiny table, nearly knocking over a flower vase.

“Careful, if you don’t respect the house, the ghosts might come get you,” Derek taunts.

“Shut up.” Stiles shivers anyway. He slides his hand out of Derek’s grip so he can twist their fingers together. Derek doesn’t say anything about it. His hand is warm and strong and Stiles feels safer already.

He can practically feel the dimly lit hallway darkening behind them. The more he tells himself not to picture ghoulish faces looming just past the fringes of his sight, the more he does. He trips over his own feet when Derek yanks him forward again. “Slow down!”

“Speed up,” Derek says, pulling him to walk next to him. “Next you’ll be saying that we should split up.” He has a devious smile on that Stiles wants to get rid of. “You know how those movies go.”

“You’re an asshole, stop.”

“Scared?”

“No.”

They find the stairs that lead to the basement in the (thankfully) brightly lit kitchen on the first floor. Derek leaves Stiles on his own and quickly locates the veritable wealth of unexplored booze in the cellar below. Derek isn’t even gone long enough to freak Stiles out before he returns with Luc’s keg.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, boosting himself up to sit on the center island. “If you need anyone to help you do a keg stand, college boy, I’m your man.”

“Wow, thanks.” Derek sets the keg down next to Stiles on the island and reaches out for Stiles’ hand again.

Stiles lets him without saying anything about it, returning the favor from before. Derek’s close to him and from this distance, Stiles can see a jolly flush set in his cheeks. He can see the spectral patterns in his eyes and his hair starting to curl over his ears. He lifts their hands so he can appreciate how good they look twisted up together. 

“Why’d you come find me?” Stiles asks.

“Didn’t want you getting beheaded by ghosts.” 

“Oh, okay. Asshole.” Stiles wants to wipe that pretty smile off his stupid face. Or keep looking at it. Either way. Derek bites his lower lip and if that isn’t the hottest thing in the world... 

“So when are you going to kiss me again?” Derek asks and his voice is low. Stiles tears his eyes away from his mouth, suddenly realizing that he’d been staring. Derek’s predatory gaze makes him feel naked. 

“I mean, now works for me,” he answers, trying not to stumble over his words. He can’t take his eyes off him.

Derek lets go of Stiles’ hand again to grab his waist instead and pulls him in.

And this time it’s different. Less melting, more crashing. 

Stiles grabs him by the face to bring him closer, their teeth clicking together. Stiles feels all rational, higher thought processes completely shut down when Derek’s tongue ends up in his mouth. 

And then Stiles is on autopilot. His hands fall from Derek’s face, slide from his shoulders to his biceps, drop from there to his waist, zero in on his zipper… God, he can’t help it. And Derek doesn’t stop him. He hooks his finger into Derek’s waistband to test the waters. No protest. He starts to fiddle with the button when the basement door creaks a little.

“FUCK. Fuck that,” Stiles exclaims, trying to slide off the island to run for safety. Derek laughs and hugs him, pinning him to the spot. 

“Bundle of nerves,” he says, kissing Stiles’ neck. 

“This place is fucking haunted, they straight up told us that.”

“I thought you weren’t scared.”

“I’m not about to anger any serial killer ghosts. Or murder victim ghosts. Or French Revolution ghosts or whatever kind of ghosts hang out here.” But his heart rate is slowing down already. Derek is solid against him. Hot and inviting. He leans his head against Derek’s and gets deeply distracted by his mouth on his throat. He forces himself to keep talking but his tongue is thick and lazy in his mouth. “You know how these movies go, Derek. We’re begging to have our eyeballs ripped out.”

“You want to stop?” Derek asks, looking up at him finally.

“I want to move this away from the gaping hell gate that is this basement door.”

Derek laughs, rocking forward again. He tilts his head up to kiss Stiles’ brow. 

“Stop laughing at me,” Stiles says just to say anything. He’s drunk, but not drunk enough to feign numbness. He’s high, but not high enough to blur this out. Derek’s spit cooling on his neck, soft kisses on his brow, his arms around him… It would take a few more drinks and maybe a bowl or two more to convince him that this wasn’t going to break him open.

“Sorry, babe.” Derek goes back to sucking on his neck, his hands slipping up his shirt to curl around his naked sides. Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat.

“Don’t call me babe.” Because it hurts. 

God, it fucking hurts. There’s that alternate universe again, the one where everything had gone the way it should have. Where this isn’t a secret, drunken, awkward little make-out session. Where this is a loving couple who has slipped away for a minute while their friends laugh about them behind their backs. “Those crazy kids.” “Love. Disgusting, isn’t it?” Fond smiles all around, the studio audience laughs, the score swells and the credits roll. 

He’s trying not to let his heart get ahead of him. He’s trying not to imagine sweat and spit and skin and sheets wrapped around their legs and waking up in the morning for another round…

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, pulling away a little. 

Before he can get too far away, Stiles grabs his face and pulls him back in, mouth open already. He wants to take what he can get, he wants to get as far as he can. He’s in a haunted house somewhere in Paris and he’s kissing the only person in the world worth kissing. Derek’s grip on his waist is strong and safe and _his mouth_ is breathing life into him. If Stiles slides forward to get his legs around him, so be it. If he pulls Derek in by the hair and loves the sounds he makes, then so be it. 

Derek lets go of his waist and the lack of contact sucks but then his hands are fumbling with his jeans. And yeah, that’s where this is going. 

If he ends up broken, then so be it.

**

The basement door creaks again, louder and longer than before. Stiles jumps and Derek doesn’t laugh this time – all he can think about is getting him somewhere where he won’t be distracted by stupid ghost stories and a creaky old house.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Derek mumbles, staring at his lips. There are plenty of rooms upstairs.

“No,” he breathes. “No, let’s go back to the hotel.” 

And that’s more promising. The idea of every inch of Stiles’ skin exposed just for him in a hotel bed... A room upstairs would be a quick and dirty affair, the hotel room sounds like a whole night and maybe a morning. 

Derek nods his answer and kisses Stiles again, softer this time. Stiles grinds against him and the heat between them, the feeling of him hard against him, is like coming home. 

“I’d fuck you right here,” Derek says nonsensically, clouded with lust.

“I’d let you,” Stiles responds. 

Derek’s ready to toss the hotel out the window when Stiles unbuttons his jeans and reaches inside, fingers tangling purposefully in the waistband of his boxers.

Derek hears footsteps in the hall half a second before someone says, “Did you guys get murdered by ghosts?”

Erica appears in the doorway before they can spring apart. “Oh,” she says, shocked.

Derek watches Stiles quickly button and zip his pants. He clears his throat, cheeks blazing red. “We’re um…” he tries to explain.

“Busy. Yes. I’ll take this,” she says, striding to the keg. She tries to lift it. “Okay no I won’t. Um…”

“I’ll take it,” Derek says. Stiles steps toward him, his hands going back to Derek’s fly. He’s about to swat him away when he realizes that he’s zipping him up. “Oh. Uh…”

Erica looks like she’s trying not to giggle. “Great. Uh…”

Stiles lets out a frustrated sound. “Alright, okay, we’re taking this upstairs, we’re hanging out a little longer and then we’re disappearing. Erica isn’t telling a soul, right? Sound like a plan?”

“Right,” Erica says, nodding too much.

They go back up and Derek tries so hard not to stare. He’s pretty sure he can see the beginnings of a hickey on Stiles’ neck. He feels a sense of pride about that. Yeah, he did that. That neck? Yeah, that’s his. 

And Stiles can’t keep his eyes off him either. They sit and drink up in the attic and Stiles isn’t saying much and neither is Derek, but he can feel himself becoming more and more undressed under Stiles’ gaze. 

Eventually, they all head back to the main party. Derek watches Stiles dance with Margot from afar, Derek leans into Jean-Paul’s touch and makes sure Stiles is watching, everyone Derek is introduced to is practically faceless to him, the sounds all bleed together.

And then his phone vibrates in his pocket. The message reads, “Go call a cab.”

**

Of course tonight they’re in a suite. The doors lock, but they don’t feel _closed_. Stiles prays to every god above that Lydia doesn’t want to crawl into bed with him tonight to keep loneliness at bay. He prays that Scott won’t want to wake him up early to talk about whichever girl changed his life at the party. He hopes they’re all living it up like the rock stars they’re supposed to be for once. He hopes they don’t come back until the morning. 

He’s scared as he falls into bed with Derek, Derek’s hands on him, his hands on Derek. 

He hasn’t touched him with this kind of intent in two years. Two years. He never even had a chance to worry about there even being a last time back then, but now… now he is worried. He knows what it is like to go without this expanse of skin and the muscles and bones and veins underneath. He can’t deny himself this opportunity to remember, even if the regret will kill him.

Derek’s whispering something into his hair but Stiles isn’t of the mind to translate. He finds himself on top of Derek, has his hands pinned to the bed above his head. He dips forward to bite his neck and roll his hips and moan against his flushed skin. 

His entire body is buzzing. It’s one thing that he hasn’t fucked anyone since the States. It’s another that this is Derek. He used to treat this body like an altar, he used to treat this like a ritual, he used to worship this. From the first time he got his hands on Derek’s dick, from the second he slid his zipper down while crammed in the back seat of Derek’s stupid little sports car and really wrapped his hands around him, he’d never been able to think of this body as anything but godly.

He’s drunk. He’s so wasted. He’s going to laugh about tonight with the rest of the band, laugh about how he didn’t even realize he’d left the party until he was falling into his bed, alone. He’s not above asking Derek what happened tonight as if he can’t remember if he wakes up next to him in the morning. Must have blacked out. So drunk.

Except he’s not. He was getting there before they left the party, but the severity of the situation seemed to shake him out of it. His lips have a little of that tell-tale buzz left in them, but they’re not numb. Oh no, that would have been a crime. To not be able to really feel this would have been so criminal.

He releases Derek’s wrists to push his shirt up, to get him to take some damn initiative and get naked already. Derek takes his cue and starts wriggling out of his clothes while Stiles strips off his jacket and tosses his shirt aside. Derek’s hands fall on Stiles’ fly before he can get that far.

He’s not drunk. 

He’s not high.

He’s in this.

He’s aware, he’s awake, he’s consenting, he’s soaking it up, he’s amazed at how unchanged this body is while the person piloting it almost seems like a stranger…

He runs his fingers along the ridges of Derek’s ribs, follows the curve of his waist, slides across the smooth pane of his stomach, follows the dark trail of hair down down down… He dismounts him, pulls his body away from him and down in between his legs, his lips catch on Derek’s collar bone as he goes and they slide down down down… Until his nose is buried in wiry hair, breathing him in, until his lips hit velvety smooth skin…

Derek’s hands fist in his hair as he licks a stripe up the underside of his dick. Stiles takes him into his mouth and looks up at him. Derek moans, head thrown back, beautiful throat exposed. One hand pulls away from Stiles’ hair and reaches for the bedside table, claws for the lamp, fumbles with the fixture, turns the light on.

He watches his body tense, arch off the mattress, writhe… Stiles aches with want. 

And it feels at once more beautiful and far dirtier in the light. 

**

Derek’s vision still hasn’t cleared when Stiles climbs back up him, sliding pleasantly against Derek’s sweat slicked skin. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, the last consonant lost against Stiles’ mouth. Stiles pulls away, pulls Derek up into a sitting position, pushes him until he scoots back against the headboard and ends up in his lap. Stiles is beyond language at this point, his mouth hot on Derek’s throat. 

Derek flashes back to the cab ride, Stiles sucking on his neck, his hand tracing his inner thigh. 

He flashes back to lying in bed in his old loft, Stiles riding him. 

He flashes back to his last tour, the front of his body pressed against a wall as Stiles fucked him, his teeth on his ear lobe.

He flashes back to shy groping in the backseat of his car, to skipping class to smoke in the woods, to shotgunning over the center console in Stiles’ jeep, to falling in love with him over months of band practice and parties and road trips to the city for concerts and exchanging mixtapes...

Derek’s hands are on Stiles’ hips and ribs and waist and shoulders… Stiles lifts his head, Derek slides his hands up to his neck and pulls him back in for a kiss. He can taste himself on his tongue. 

For the first time in two years of sex, from the first time he could stomach a rebound to the last hookup in a San Francisco bar, Derek’s mind is focused and quiet. He isn’t comparing the length of his legs or the texture of his hair or his hands to some past rubric. Stiles is the rubric. 

“Want you…” he forces out. Stiles pulls back enough to lock eyes with him, searching him for an answer… And then he nods.

Derek can see, can actually _feel_ the clarity in his eyes. He’s not drunk… he’s not high… He’s in it. He’s conscious, he’s awake, he’s on board...

Derek misses his weight in his lap when he leaves. He watches him, listens to his own heaving breath and a curious rattling as Stiles roots through a bag next to the bed. Derek slides until he’s lying down, eyes not leaving Stiles’ back until he turns back around and crawls over to him. He kneels beside him, holding a condom up between two fingers. 

“Put it on me,” he says, voice low and gravelly. 

**

November 1st.  
Paris, France.

Stiles wakes up to someone pounding on his door. “Press day!” Allison calls from the other side. “You have fifteen minutes.”

“Fuck,” Stiles curses, feeling panic rise in him as he props himself up on his elbows.

And then he realizes that he’s alone. 

“Fuck,” Stiles sighs, falling back against the mattress. 

“Stiles?” Allison yells again, knocking harder. “You alive?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up. Fuck off.”

“So pleasant in the mornings,” he hears her mutter before her footsteps lead away.

“Maybe if someone didn’t wake me up fifteen minutes before having to be leave, I would be!” he yells.

But fifteen minutes later he’s showered and dressed and sitting in between Derek and Scott in the back of a van on their way to a studio. He can smell Derek’s woodsy cologne and it kills him. He slouches in his seat, slides his sunglasses on, and closes his eyes.

“You okay?” Derek asks beside him.

It takes everything in him not to laugh cruelly at the question. He’s mentally preparing for cameras and interviews. He sets his mouth in a neutral straight line and then schools it into a slight smile.

“Yeah, just tired. Rough night,” he says, sounding as pleasant as he can muster with some sexy emphasis on the rough part.

Derek just grunts and turns to look out the window. Stiles looks at him out of the corner of his eye and sees the suggestion of a hickey blooming just under the collar of his shirt. His fake little smile turns into a very smug, satisfied one as he closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the seat.

When he lets his mind wander, it wanders to the night before… Derek naked beneath him, moaning and panting and whining as he thrust into him… The salty tang of Derek’s sweat, the way he arched his back as he came, his hands balled up in the sheets as he swore, the blinding white flash of a fuck well done, _la petite mort_ as the French say… 

“Holy shit, man,” Scott says beside him. 

Stiles jumps, his cheeks heating up as he turns toward Scott. “What?”

“Your neck!”

Of course. Of fucking course. Stiles reaches up to touch where he assumes Derek left his mark.

Lydia and Allison both twist around in the row in front of them seat to get a look. Allison squints. 

“Eh, there’s makeup for that...” She continues to look at him for a second, as though trying to read him for clues. Stiles glares back at her. She smirks and turns back around. “For someone who got laid last night, you should be in a better mood.”

“Fuck off, Allison.”

A better mood. Stiles fell asleep cradled against Derek. Fell asleep sweaty and exhausted and satisfied and smitten. He’d laughed against Derek’s mouth, he’d bit his lip to try to stop laughing because there was nothing funny and he had no idea why that had to be his reaction anyway, but then Derek laughed too. He’d pulled him flush against him, tucked Stiles’ head under his chin, and pulled the blankets over their shoulders. And for the first time in forever, Stiles had felt… perfect.

And then he woke up alone. 

Stiles mentally forgives Allison, because he has to. Because she’s not being malicious and he knows it. Because he’s just frustrated. He takes a deep and centering breath as he forces himself to stop glaring at the back of her head. The flash of Lydia’s red hair in the sunlight catches his eye and he looks at her instead. She gives him a little smile and squeezes his knee. 

“Love you,” she says simply before turning back around.

“What about me?” Scott asks.

“Love you too.”

“And what about Derek?” Scott presses.

“Love him too.”

“Aw, shucks,” Scott sighs dreamily, throwing an arm around Stiles and pulling him roughly back against his chest. 

“Assholes,” Stiles mutters, but his smile betrays him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris is a Morrissey song!
> 
> Oh, and I'm a big ole liar who lies about my own self-imposed posting deadlines. Forgive me? :C
> 
> And to all of you who have said that you never ever read WIPs: you have no idea how much it means to me that you're taking a chance on this one. Thank you thank you thank you. And thank you to the rest of you as well, obviously. <3


	17. Make Out Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Moonday, y'all! If you're screaming internally like I am, clap your hands. Plz join me in a S4 prayer circle in your hearts.
> 
> ALSO:  
> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

November 1st.  
Paris, France.

Derek feels miserable. He’s dressed in tight pants and a weird shirt and a leather jacket and he’s pretty sure that, combined, it all costs more than his car. Lydia is dressed in something remarkable, her red hair cascading in immaculate curls over her shoulder, as she poses in a window sill. She’s backlit by natural light and of course she looks perfect and the photographer is in love with her. When she answers his questions in French, he loves her even more. 

Scott is in another room talking to the writer. Allison is yawning next to him while she answers emails on her iPad. And Stiles is out on the fire escape. And Derek is suffocating in designer clothes, wishing he was back in bed.

Derek had woken up feeling refreshed. He’d woken up with Stiles’ head tucked under his chin and his arm loosely circling his waist. The first thing he’d seen was his thick, messy hair. He’d trailed his fingers up Stiles’ back and his skin was soft and warm and smooth. 

And then he had heard rustling and thumping out in the living room and knew he had to get out of there before they were caught. So he left when the living room was clear and leaned against his door and let the sudden loneliness wash over him.

Derek can’t blame Stiles for being in a bad mood.

Derek cranes his neck to get a glimpse of Stiles through the window that leads to the fire escape and figures that he’s on his phone, judging by the hunch of his shoulders as he leans against the railing. So he texts him. Like an idiot.

“On a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you hate me?” 

“Zero. Can’t be mad at sex like that.”

“Sorry I left. I figured you’d rather wake up alone than get caught.”

The read receipt says that Stiles has seen his message, but his response doesn’t come for awhile.

“It’s fine. And I’m pretty sure the all-powerful Allison already knows.”

“Probably.” Derek doesn’t know what else to say. Should he apologize for that? Laugh about it?

“I firmly believe that she is psychic. Remember when she knew Lydia and Jackson had shacked up in high school when we didn’t even know?”

Derek laughs. Allison looks up at him suspiciously for a second. Stiles turns and gives him a smirk from the fire escape.

“You and Scott refused to talk to either of them for the entire SEVEN HOUR bus ride, of course I remember.”

“We wrote a song called Jackson is a Loser Who Will Never Land Lydia Martin and he already had, okay? We had to punish them.”

“Of course.” And then Derek hesitates, his thumbs tapping the edge of his phone nervously. “Ally found out I was gay by shutting down a tabloid story.” 

When he looks up, Stiles has turned to face the window. There’s a slight smile on his face as he reads the message.

“Gay, huh?” Two rainbow emojis bookend the question.

“Yeah.”

“Whatever happened to me indoctrinating you into The Bisexual Lifestyle (copyright Laura Hale)?”

“Sexuality. Ebbs and flows, like the ocean... Or whatever. Now get me a beer. (copyright Laura Hale)”

“Your sister is a national treasure.”

Derek’s in the middle of a message about not letting Laura know he thinks that when Stiles sends another.

“Just come out here and talk to me.”

So he does. 

**

Stiles never could stay mad at Derek. Well, other than… recently. But when he’s there in the flesh and looking grumpy about wearing fancy clothes… it’s not even worth the effort to try to stay mad. And when they talk about the Hale sisters and the Sheriff, it’s impossible. 

Because when they talk about their families, it’s like they’re normal people. It’s like a slice of home. It’s refreshing to refer to people they love who have nothing to do with the industry they’re in without having to explain.

By the time Derek’s resorted to reading the artist statement from the website of Laura’s most recent project, Stiles doesn’t even feel like they’re in a foreign country anymore. 

“So it’s… performance art, I guess. I don’t know. It’s way too high brow for me, maybe,” Derek sums up. 

“Was it her opening?” Stiles blurts out. “In New York, I mean.”

“Yeah.” 

“Wow,” Stiles laughs. “Good for her.”

The look on Derek’s face is one reserved for his family, Stiles knows it and loves it. He remembers it from Laura’s first art show in college and from when Cora graduated high school and when his mother had finished renovating the kitchen all by herself… And now Stiles is busy adding dark gray to the list of colors that Derek’s eyes are capable of reflecting when he hears a camera shutter clicking close by.

“You both look so beautiful!” the photographer gushes from the window when they look over. “I couldn’t resist. Paris looks lovely on you both.” He gestures widely at the skyline beyond them before turning on his heel and disappearing.

Stiles looks down, blushing stupidly, knowing exactly what the photographer had captured. He’s seen plenty of pictures like it before. Stiles and Derek, just looking at each other, betraying every ounce of intimacy they had just with their faces. Stiles knew that his face used to soften when he looked at Derek. And that the natural downturn of his lips at rest turned into a natural upturn without him realizing. And that his whole body turned to him like a sunflower to the sun.

Stiles had always seen that reflected back at him from Derek too. Near the end of them, he’d actually started to forget that Derek’s natural expression was so surly because he hadn’t seen it in so long. 

He’d spent a lot of this tour trying not to look at Derek, especially not with the rest of them around. Because when he looked, he could feel his face softening. Because when he looked, he felt like he was in one of those dreams where he kept running and running and never got close to his destination. Because when he looked, Derek had been avoiding looking at him too. And that sucked. 

“You okay?” Derek asks, shaking him from his thoughts.

Stiles looks back at him and gives him a small smile. “I’m fine.”

And maybe Stiles is just so tired of trying not to look and trying not to feel anything and trying to insulate himself from hurtful things. And maybe Stiles hadn’t felt known, truly known, in a long time but the night before he definitely had. With Derek’s hands on him, the burdens of pretense and performance and the need to fight for and explain himself had disappeared. 

Stiles can’t wait to see the picture, honestly. He used to hate when those private little moments had been caught on film and published for the whole world to see. It had always felt like a bullet hole in their armor. But now he doesn’t care. 

“I didn’t want to go…” Derek starts, sounding raw and exposed. He’s looking back at Stiles like he hopes that Stiles can fill in the blanks for him. And he can. He didn’t want to leave him, he’d wanted to stay in bed, he’s in the middle of a crisis just like Stiles is because this whole thing is suddenly messier (but still way better) than either of them could have imagined… 

Stiles takes a drag of his cigarette and blows it out slowly. He doesn’t want to correct his assumptions about where his mind had wandered off to. “I know,” he says finally. “I get it.”

“So did we fuck up?” Derek asks. 

Stiles flicks his ashes over the railing. “I don’t know yet.”

Derek nods and looks a little disappointed. 

Well, Stiles had started to look at him and didn’t care who noticed it. And Derek had started looking back. And that was something. That had to go somewhere. 

“Maybe we did,” he says. He rubs his unfinished cigarette against the beige brick, leaving an ashy smudge in its wake before dropping it amongst the other butts littering the fire escape. “Maybe we didn’t. Either way, it was fun, right?” Fun, sure. That’s it. 

“Yeah,” Derek concedes with a sigh. 

“Nothing like a little drunken roll in the sheets to shake the tour up,” Stiles furthers. Testing, testing... 

“Do you really want to play it that way?” Derek asks

He steps closer and hooks a finger around one of Derek’s before he can think better of it.

“Of course not,” he says, voice pitched low. “Do you?” He squeezes his finger for just a second before letting go

He doesn’t expect an answer, really. He’s already halfway through the window, satisfied with leaving it on that thoughtful note, when Derek grabs his shoulder.

“No, I don’t,” Derek says, his voice stern and confident. It’s not the answer that surprises him, it’s the delivery. 

“We’re ready for group shots!” the photographer’s assistant calls from inside. Derek’s hand slips from his shoulder and the spell is broken. 

**

November 2nd.  
Paris, France.

Derek’s soul feels right when he’s playing his bass. There’s a serene smile playing at his lips as he tunes, listening to the metallic clanging of Lydia setting up her cymbals and Stiles’ buzzing amp and Scott’s silly singing as he pulls his guitar on. 

Brush up rehearsals. They were over half-way through the tour and hadn’t thought to have any yet, but it was raining in Paris and they were still recovering from Halloween. Royales and some of the roadies had taken to the city anyway, but when Stiles had suggested rehearsing, Smokes jumped at the chance.

And even though their rehearsal space has a view of the Seine, it still feels like they’re back in Lydia’s garage. Scott starts inexpertly picking out a melody on his guitar and singing over it as he saunters toward Stiles. 

“Stiiiles has a great ass, he’s got hella sass, when he picks up a guitar he… is… cool,” Scott sings, purposefully out of tune to make Stiles cringe. “Sassafraaaaasss.”

They laugh easily at him. Stiles ruffles his hair and shoves him away. “You’re a lyrical genius.”

“I know.”

It’s nice to play without pressure. There’s no audience now and there’ll be no audience later. They play a song, work out a few kinks and add cool things where they see fit. They talk for a long time in between songs and sometimes just end up improvising until their impromptu songs fall into laughter. 

“Let’s work on Buoyant real quick,” Stiles says after they’ve realized that they only have half an hour left in their rented space. “We never really got to rehearse it with Derek singing anyway.”

There’s implied blame there, but Derek’s not about to point it out.

“Man, I miss that song,” Scott sighs, trying for a light tone but just barely falling short. Lydia busies herself with adjusting the height of one of her drums and Derek can feel the tension rolling in…

“The only person you can blame for that is yourself,” Stiles counters with an edge to his voice.

“Don’t act like you’re not pleased with the way it turned out, Stiles,” Scott barks at him. 

“Oookay, boys,” Lydia says in a sing-song voice. 

“Scott can have it back if he wants,” Derek offers.

“No, remember, we do everything for the fans, isn’t that right, Scotty?”

Scott refuses to answer that. His face is red as he bends down to fiddle with his amp. 

“I said, isn’t that right, Scotty?” Stiles repeats.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“No, Scott, you—“

“God, shut up both of you, let’s just play the damn song!” Lydia yells, shocking them both into silence.

And then the moment passes. Derek keeps an eye on both of them as they start. The energy feels closed off between them. They play well together, but they feel like they’re dragging. They trudge through a few bars like that, and slowly regain their footing. Derek can almost pinpoint the exact second when Stiles has brushed off the awkward encounter because suddenly his strumming seems more spirited and his singing takes on a brighter tone.

Scott comes around too, smiling a lopsided smile at him when they finally make eye contact again.

Derek misses his cue while trying to figure them out, and the whole song stutters to a stop.

“Head in the game, Hale, c’mon,” Stiles teases him.

**

November 3rd.  
Cologne, Germany.

“The crowd is incredible tonight,” Stiles announces as he re-enters the green room after watching the first song of Royale’s set from side stage. “Royales is killing it, the people love them.” He sighs contentedly as he flops onto an unoccupied couch. “They grow up so fast.”

“Great,” Allison says, hardly looking up from her overflowing portfolio. 

“Al, you should be ecstatic,” Stiles scolds, tossing a balled up candy wrapper at her.

“I am.”

“Have you guys watched them from the audience?” Derek asks, stealing Stiles’ attention away from Allison.

“Not since Canada,” Scott answers from where he’s nearly submerged in a couch. His voice is thick and sleepy.

Stiles looks between him and Lydia, who he’s pretty sure is half asleep behind her sunglasses, and doesn’t like what he sees. He can already feel the excitement he’d built up by standing side stage seeping out of him in their presence.

“Well, I haven’t seen them from the audience, if anyone wants to…” Derek suggests.

“I’m down,” Lydia says, suddenly standing. “Anything to get out of this graveyard.”

Derek grins at her and stands too. He crosses to stand behind Allison and rubs her shoulders. “Come with us! Don’t you want to see how much they’ve grown since Canada?”

“Allison didn’t even see them in Canada,” Lydia tattles. 

Allison shoots her an irritated look. Ooh, Stiles likes where this is going.

“Then you have to come,” Derek says, pulling at Allison’s arm until she reluctantly stands.

“I’ve seen them play hundreds of times—“

“Not from out there you haven’t,” Lydia argues, hands wrapping around her wrist.

“C’mon, Ally,” Derek pleads, pulling on her other wrist. 

She’s learning her whole body away from them, trying to resist. “Derek, no. I have a lot to do before Berlin and—”

“Just for their last song. Just one song.”

“I’m in,” Scott says, springing up from the couch. 

“Then you guys go, stay inside the barricade. I’ll have Boyd escort you—“

“Allison, come the fuck on,” Scott groans, coming to stand beside Derek. 

“No.”

“Leave her alone,” Stiles says, biting the inside of his cheek to fight a smile. He pulls his hood further over his face and leans his head back against the couch, letting his eyes slip closed…

“Thanks, Stiles.”

“No problem. I mean, you’re older now. You’re a pro, it’d be silly of you to go out in the crowd and actually get a good look at your new act.” 

Stiles opens his eyes to gauge her reaction. She stares at him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. Derek, Lydia and Scott have their eyes on Allison, hardly containing smug smiles. 

“What do you mean?” she asks finally. Stiles can tell she’s trying to decide whether or not she should be offended.

“I mean, you used to be out there for all of our shows at the beginning so you’re already an expert on audience engagement or whatever you used to call it, right? Now that you’re managing Royales, you don’t have to put in as much work—“

“Oh fuck you, let’s go.”

And that’s how they end up behind the barricade. When Erica saw them, she pranced to the edge of the stage to sing, the stage lights sparkling in her eyes and making her blonde curls glow like a halo. She looked shocked when she saw Allison and blew her a kiss. When Stiles looks past Derek at her, her face is split into a grin and shining with tears. 

Allison stands completely still, her face turned up to the stage and flickering with color. She’s not dancing like the rest of the crowd, or like Scott and Lydia on the other side of her. Stiles recognizes that star-struck, teary face from when he first met her. From when she gushed at them after a show about how good they were and how much she wanted to make sure they kept going forever.

Stiles exchanges fond looks with Derek before he wraps his arm around her shoulders and kisses the side of her head. In the middle of a sold out show in a foreign country, with thousands of people behind him, with friends on stage and friends standing beside him… Stiles feels downright cozy. 

The kids are going nuts. They’re singing every word and dancing and cheering and sweating and Stiles realizes that this is more than a warm-up band to them. Royales had always been more than a warm-up band to him… Their audiences had been supportive of Royales from the start, but they were starting to adore them. And that makes Stiles very proud.

Royales finishes up their set to deafening screaming from the crowd. Erica and the twins meet center stage to hug each other and bow while holding hands. Marcus appears and touches each of their elbows to get their attention so he can herd them backstage.

Once back in the green room, Stiles has to refrain from laughing at Allison while she scrubs at her face with her sleeve. Scott and Lydia are singing one of Royales’ choruses as they hop up and down, trying to out-do each other. Derek gives him a warm smile and bumps him with his shoulder as he passes. 

“So, Allison, how was that?” Derek asks her.

“Incredible,” she says, grinning. “I am… they are… wow…” She heads over to the table and slams her portfolio shut and starts shoving things into her laptop bag. “And how are you guys nowadays, any good?”

“We’re decent,” Stiles answers.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

**

November 4th.  
Berlin, Germany.

Surrounded by blurry but beautiful, sweating bodies bathed in flashing lights, Derek and Stiles slowly made their way through the dance floor. Derek was finding it hard to keep his eyes in focus and Stiles’ hands sliding under his shirt to rest on his waist as they walked didn’t help either. Derek swiveled around once he couldn’t take it anymore, Stiles’ hands hardly left his skin while he did so, his fingertips sliding across his sweat slicked skin… Derek pulled him closer, his lips instantly on his jaw and sliding down his neck. His skin tasted salty, his skin was hot under his tongue, his skin was perfect. Derek could feel the vibrations of a groan but he couldn’t hear it over the music. 

Derek runs his hands up and down Stiles’ ribs, his thumbs tracing each bone as he went… Stiles’ skin-tight black shirt and skin-tight black jeans left little to the imagination and Derek’s mouth slid lower into the hollow of his throat. 

He doesn’t even realize that Stiles is moving them until his back comes into contact with the concrete wall. Stiles presses his leg in between Derek’s and pulls his face back up for a searing kiss. 

And it’s mostly tongue and teeth and the taste of beer and vodka and Stiles’ thigh pressing against Derek’s crotch. 

Derek fists his hands in Stiles’ hair and he loves the feeling of control he gets from it. He pulls him in closer and runs the tip of his tongue across the roof of Stiles’ mouth. When Stiles laughs into the kiss and tries to pull away, Derek doesn’t let him. He bites his lower lip and grinds against him until he starts kissing him back again. 

Stiles has his hands low on Derek’s hips, his nails digging into the soft skin just under his waistband, when a girl leans in close next to them. Stiles pulls away to look at her and Derek desperately needs him back…

Derek can’t focus on what they’re saying. He’s staring at Stiles’ neck and the profile of his shining, swollen lips as he talks… He says something and smiles. The girl says something back… 

“Thanks but he’s all mine. I don’t share,” Stiles concludes, and Derek definitely hears that.

The girl laughs and kisses them both on the cheek before dancing away.

“I love Berlin,” Stiles says directly into his ear before kissing him once and pulling away completely. Stiles loops a finger through Derek’s belt loop and tugs. “Let’s go,” he mouths, voice lost amongst the thundering bass.

Derek’s achingly hard as he follows him. His eyes are trained on a drop of sweat on the back of his neck as he leads them further into the club. Everything is all metal pipes and concrete walls and industrial ducts glimmering with the reflections of strobe lights and ringing with sympathetic vibrations and _Stiles’ hand so close to his dick_ …

And then Stiles shoves him back against a corner in a dark, tiny alcove.

“Want you…” he says, his voice gruff and sending a shiver through Derek. 

There are people not too far away, but no one can see them and it’s too loud for anyone to hear anything anyway… The dark look in Stiles’ eyes must reflect Derek’s because all he can think about is wrecking him… 

“Want me how?” Derek asks, pulling Stiles in by the front of his pants.

Stiles kisses him and moans against his mouth. His arms wrap around Derek and squeeze between his back and the wall, his hands traveling until they’re on his ass. He ruts against him and Derek feels his wallet slide out of his back pocket. Stiles opens the wallet in between them and pulls out the condom he knew would be there before sliding the wallet back into his pocket. He gives him a devious smile and an eyebrow raise and holds the condom in between his teeth as he goes for Derek’s fly.

Derek doesn’t need convincing. Derek’s already unzipping Stiles and shoving his pants down his hips. Stiles tears open the condom and rolls it on him and turns around for him and Derek doesn’t need any convincing at all, not even a little. 

Derek braces his arm against the opposite wall and he’s losing time, he can already feel seconds stretch to hours and hours shrink to minutes and when he’s inside Stiles _finally_ , after so long, after too long, he’s not even sure what day it is anymore. Stiles cries out and he knows he’s the only one who can hear him over the music. The claustrophobic space is hot with their body heat and breath. All Derek can think is just an echo of what Stiles had told that girl: “He’s all mine. He’s all mine. He’s all mine.”

“Be loud for me,” Derek growls in his ear before licking a long stripe up his neck. 

Stiles arches his back and leans his head back against Derek’s and he groans with every thrust. He curses under his breath and whispers Derek’s name and Derek’s free hand is loose around Stiles’ neck so he can feel his throat moving under the palm of his hand. 

Derek mindlessly lands unsophisticated kisses behind Stiles’ ear and across what little of his jaw he can reach. 

“You been practicing?” Stiles pants. “Fucking other people?”

“Yeah.”

“It shows.”

Derek presses him even harder against the wall and tightens his grip on his throat. Stiles lets out a dark, pleased little laugh and presses back against him.

“Thought of me every time, huh?” he asks, turning his head to the side.

Derek slams his hips against him and Stiles’ resounding groan cuts off and bleeds into a desperate keening whimper.

“I could ask you the same question,” Derek rumbles. 

Stiles lets his head fall forward and presses his forehead into the wall. Derek’s hand slips from his throat and travels across his chest and down his side. He runs his fingers across his hip bone and across his stomach and wraps his hand around him. Stiles’ legs threaten to give out and Derek laughs. Stiles laughs with him and uses his free hand to pull Derek into an awkward over-the-shoulder kiss.

Derek keeps kissing him, keeps swallowing every gasp and moan Stiles has to offer, freely gives his own back to him, and after some immeasurable amount of time Stiles cries out.

“I’m about to… I’m… fuck, Derek, fuck,” he stutters against his mouth. He tears his face away and presses it against the wall. Derek can feel his body convulsing against him, can feel his cock twitching in his hand. Derek slams into him a few more times and he finishes with his face pressed into the back of Stiles’ neck.

**

Stiles had ended up in Derek’s lap, sitting on the floor of the weird little space. He had ended up sucking on his neck and kissing his jaw and Derek’s hands were on his back and he could feel the layer of sweat between them and he could have stayed there all night, even though the music was giving him a headache. 

He’d almost answered his question too, even though he’d cursed himself for falling into that trap by asking it himself. As much as he’d tried not to, he had never been able to stop wishing every person he fucked was Derek. And he hoped Derek had been the same way. 

Instead of answering that question though, Stiles pulled Derek into a kiss and he was too tired to make it filthy… Suddenly, after a long day of drinking and a long night of dancing and trying to keep their flirting discrete and figuring out how to slip away from their friends and after a truly exhausting orgasm, Stiles felt soft and pliable like a sleepy kitten. He let Derek cup his face and he let him kiss him sweetly and Stiles let himself murmur into the kiss and laid his fingers against Derek’s throat so he could feel his pulse. 

Stiles felt ready to go back to the hotel. With Derek. Ready to crawl into bed and curl around him and lay his head on his chest and listen to his breath until he falls asleep. Ready to wake up to his warm skin and his calloused finger tips tracing the veins in his wrist... 

It was hot in the alcove and Stiles had been thinking about how he didn’t know how he went without Derek for two years and the music had been pounding in his head and his thoughts had been racing. He tore himself away from Derek and struggled to his feet. 

Their space was so small, too small, and it smelled like _them_ and Stiles was and still is drunk and his head felt and still feels heavy and there is no _them_ , really, they’re just two separate souls crashing back into each other and his vision got spotty…

And then he was running. Away. Still zipping up as he went. 

He ran until he got outside somehow. He had just needed to feel the air and for all that sound (the blood rushing in his ears and the bass and the screeching and people talking and Derek’s breath) to stop. 

He sank to the ground, his back against brick, and forced himself to breathe.

He’s been forcing himself to breathe for awhile when he hears two familiar voices approaching. He lifts his head and squints in their direction.

“Stiles? What are you doing out here?” Danny asks. His hand slips out of Ethan’s as he jogs the remaining distance to him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Danny kneels and examines him. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Stiles is dimly aware of Danny asking Ethan to go get some water. Water sounds good. Danny’s a good friend. Ethan’s a good friend. Good people deserve each other. He wonders how that all started up. He should ask… They look good together. Stiles rubs his face with both hands and tries to stop thinking about how good he and Derek look together too. How their bodies look lying together, their legs tangled, their arms wrapped around each other…

“What happened?” Danny asks.

“I’m so in love with Derek,” Stiles blurts out, his filter currently offline. 

Danny laughs. He just laughs. Stiles shoots him an incredulous look.

“Of course you are. Idiot.”

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles.

When Ethan returns with the water, Derek is with him. Looking shy and a little hurt. “He was looking for you,” Ethan informs him as he hands him a bottle.

Stiles waits until Danny and Ethan go back inside before he stands and pulls Derek into a hug.

“You okay?” Derek whispers, rocking him a little.

“Yeah.” No. “Just needed air.” I love you and it sucks. “Sorry.” 

**

November 5th.  
Berlin, Germany.

Stiles wakes up with Derek, a slight hangover and foggy but pleasant memories of the night before. At the club. After the club. Crawling into bed after parting ways with the rest of their friends…

Derek presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple to let him know he’s awake. He rolls until he’s facing Derek directly and pulls him into a kiss. Derek’s hold on his waist is loose but intimate. Stiles wants to sing a power ballad to him… and maybe he will in the shower… a shared shower. God, yes.

He’s so screwed.

Stiles is starting to think it was a good thing they hadn’t had time to lay around in bed together. He’s starting to feel too bare. He’s starting to forget why the last two years had happened in the first place. He wonders if he’s forgiven him or if he’s in the process of that… 

Derek pinches his side to steal his attention back. Stiles curls his fingers against Derek’s cheek and runs his nails across his stubble, making him squirm. When Derek laughs against his mouth, his heart swells in his chest. So screwed. He’s so so so screwed.

And it’s not like he hadn’t already figured that out. It’s not like he hadn’t felt affection blooming in him as early as Oslo. It’s not like he hadn’t felt his body buzzing like a tuning fork to Derek’s voice back in Beacon Hills… 

“Hey,” Derek grumbles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Breakfast.”

“Mmm, coffee. Pastries. Yes.”

“Bacon.”

“Mhm,” Stiles murmurs as he goes in for another kiss. “Waffles,” he says against Derek’s mouth.

“Waffles,” Derek agrees. His phone starts ringing while he’s kissing Stiles back and he shoves his hand under his pillow to fish it out.

“Breakfast?” Stiles asks when Derek pulls his face away to look at the screen.

Derek answers the phone and asks the same question of the caller. Stiles runs his thumb across Derek’s lower lip while he waits for the answer. “Alright, I'll be down in fifteen,” he says. Stiles curls against him even closer and starts kissing his neck. And then Derek sighs. “Yeah, I meant _we_. Get out of my business.” Stiles hears bright laughter on the other end. 

**

Allison might have figured them out, but they’re not about to broadcast it to the rest of them. Stiles sits on the opposite end of the table in between Lydia and Boyd while Derek sits in between Allison and Scott. They staggered their entrances into the hotel’s dining room and didn’t say much to each other once they got there. Derek knew that he couldn’t look at him, his hair still damp and his skin still dewy, without thinking about kissing him in the shower. He knew he couldn’t hold a conversation without staring at his lips. He knew he couldn’t have a group breakfast and sit next to him without feeling domesticated and enamored.

“Tour life is hardly real life,” Jackson argues a few seats down. “Our jobs are practically imaginary.”

“Uh, speak for yourself,” Danny counters. “My job is very not imaginary.”

“You know what I mean. I mean… it’s like, when I’m on the road, I feel like there aren’t any consequences. Aside from putting on a show every night, everything else is just… an adventure.”

“I see what you mean,” Ethan says after some thought. 

“There are still consequences, even if you don’t feel like there are,” Danny says, pointing his fork at Jackson while he talked. 

“Like what?”

“Like I’m going home with a boyfriend, and you’ll probably be going home with a sexually transmitted pants demon. Consequences.”

Derek looks away when Ethan hides a laugh against Danny’s shoulder and wraps his hands around his bicep. And he doesn’t look at Stiles either. 

“Oh, Stiles,” Allison says, looking up from her phone. “You have some bids on your house if you’d like to go over them later.”

While the roadies just look up at him with vague interest, Lydia chokes on her coffee and Scott’s silverware clangs unpleasantly against his plate. 

“Yeah, fine,” Stiles says, looking down into his lap.

“What do you mean?” Scott asks. 

“I’m selling my house.”

“Why?” Scott presses.

“Because I want to move?”

“Where?”

“To another house.”

“Where? Which other house?”

“Scott, buddy, I haven’t even sold it yet, let’s focus on the now—“

“Stiles, where are you moving?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t looked into it.”

“So you’re just selling your house without any plan? That’s stupid, why would you do that?”

“Let’s talk about this later,” Lydia suggests. 

“No, let’s talk about it now. What neighborhoods are you looking at, Stiles? If you don’t like Silver Lake, maybe you should check out my neighborhood. Or Lydia’s. Or Allison’s.”

“I’m uh… not looking into neighborhoods.”

“So… where, then?” Scott asks, leaning forward in his chair. 

Derek’s been keeping his eyes down through all of this, but he slowly lifts them. Stiles is suspiciously still. His eyes flick toward Derek for a second before purposefully fixating on a spot on the table cloth.

“Up north,” Stiles admits.

“Los Feliz? The Valley?”

“Beacon Hills, probably,” Stiles finally admits, his voice low.

“Huh,” Scott says, settling back in his chair, crossing his arms stiffly across his chest. “Great retirement spot.”

Stiles doesn’t respond. Derek wants to change the subject, but the tension that has settled over their table feels unbreakable. 

“See, that’s what I’m saying,” Jackson starts, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. “There’s two worlds for people like us. The road and reality. They don’t mix well.” He laughs awkwardly and nudges Danny. Danny doesn’t share in his faux merriment, but he does turn a suspicious eye toward Derek.

Scott stands up, his chair screeching against the floor, and walks out. Stiles doesn’t watch him go. 

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up, I should have just told you in private,” Allison rambles in a higher pitch than normal.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says through a clenched jaw. “Just sell it, I don’t care.”

Conversation slowly returns to the table. Derek doesn’t have a lot to contribute though, not with Scott’s gaping absence to his left, not with Stiles stewing across the way, not with the guilt he can feel rolling off of Allison… And not with his own guilt either, because now all he can really think about is how much he wants Stiles to move back to Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make Out Kids is a Motion City Soundtrack song. (I tried so hard to keep with the geographically relevant songs, but everywhere I turned, I just found songs referring to Nazi Germany or war or East/West Berlin and I was like naaah tho...)
> 
> I sat down and turned my list of planned future events into chapter outlines and we're looking at about 4 or 5 more chapters (!!!!!). 
> 
> Your comments and kudos (and for some of you your TWITTER MELTDOWNS?? <3), fill me with joy and I endlessly appreciate you all. Thank you thank you thank you. :)
> 
> IF THERE ARE HORRIBLE TYPOS THOSE ARE GETTING FIXED LATER BECAUSE NOW I NEED TO JUST GO FINISH OFF MY 3B REWATCH BYEEE <3


	18. Doomed Like We Were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

November 5th.  
Berlin, Germany. 

The drive to the venue is silent, but Stiles gets a text from Lydia that says he can always stay with her when he comes to visit as long as she can crash with him instead of her parents in Beacon Hills. 

And that’s when it sinks in. They’re not coming with him this time. Lydia’s childhood home is about fifteen minutes away from Stiles’ and Stiles’ is a few blocks away from Scott’s. Lydia’s plush high rise apartment is half an hour away, traffic permitting, from Stiles’ house and Scott’s place is over in Santa Monica… all driving distance. All “hey, let’s meet up for drinks” distance. All “too tired after a day in the studio, we’re sleeping over” distance. 

Beacon Hills is about seven hours away from Los Angeles. But Lydia, Scott and Stiles had once made the drive in five hours after missing their Christmas Eve red eye flight.

When he’d listed his house, he hadn’t considered that the tour would go well. He honestly hadn’t. He hadn’t considered that the Beacon Hills he was missing had ceased to exist once they left it. 

Scott’s silence is stifling, the quiet hum of the engine is oppressive in a way that it hasn’t been since before London… 

His hands are shaking as he stumbles out of the car and into the venue. He dimly hears Erica’s voice calling him as he blows through the green room toward a hallway he’s pretty sure he remembers from the last time they played there. When the door doesn’t click shut immediately after he’s passed through and when a hand wraps around his wrist, his heart rate quickens and his breath shallows out in anticipation of…

“Are you okay?” Derek asks when Stiles swings around to face him. 

… Not that.

Derek puts his hands on Stiles’ cheeks and his eyes are so open and earnest… Stiles leans into him, let’s Derek guide his head into a comforting spot on his shoulder, let’s himself feel anchored. He takes a deep breath. “Do you want to talk about it?” Derek presses, letting go of his face to wrap Stiles up in his arms.

“M’fine,” Stiles mutters against him, using the sharp pinpricks of Derek’s stubble against his face to ground him. His hands are steady, slightly curving to fit the shape of Derek’s hips. This isn’t what he had expected, he didn’t know what he had expected.

“What happened back there?” Derek rumbles.

Stiles shrugs. He’s exhausted of the conflict already. He breathes in the smell of Derek’s cologne. He can hear muffled voices on the other side of the door – gentle, familiar, lovable voices. He can feel the burden of silence lifting. 

“Why are you moving back to Beacon Hills?” Derek asks, going for a different approach.

And there are just so many reasons. That’s what’s making this hard. Stiles has hated that house since the second he realized he’d never share it with Derek, he just hadn’t had a strong enough reason to sell it until recently. Sometimes, if he stands in a certain spot on the landing, he can still feel that phone call echoing around the foyer. 

_”What do you mean you aren’t coming?”_

_“Stiles, I quit.”_

And he misses the rain. He misses the woods. He misses his dad. He hadn’t had time to visit his mother’s grave in a year. He liked that their hometown is small and quiet – he’s tired and over-stimulated all the time. Beacon Hills is centering and calm where Los Angeles is sprawling and disorienting. 

And since this tour started, he’s really fallen for the idea that Derek’s there too. Derek in that converted farmhouse by the Preserve, not in the rusty old loft Stiles had been picturing him in. There had been fucking flower boxes on his porch. Empty flower boxes, but still. Stiles could easily imagine Derek standing on that porch with a coffee mug in hand, watering his _flower boxes_ in his pajamas. And Stiles wanted to be sitting on the _god damn porch swing_ watching him while an early morning breeze whistled through the woods. 

“I miss my Jeep” is what Stiles ends up muttering though. Derek laughs, his breath ghosting down his neck. Derek squeezes him as if he understands the weight of what he isn’t saying. He probably does. Stiles squeezes him back.

**

“He told me he wanted to buy a place in Beacon Hills months ago,” Scott tells Derek totally out of the blue. Erica and Stiles are on stage singing an Arctic Monkeys song that really brings the night before crashing back at Derek’s feet. He tears his eyes away from them to look at Scott.

“So?” Derek asks back.

“I thought he’d changed his mind,” he says with a shrug. “I thought he’d still be based in LA.”

“Why does it matter?” Derek has his suspicions…

“I thought we were good. I thought… it’s stupid, but I thought we’d gotten him back.”

“Back from where?”

Scott shifts uneasily. “From you.”

Derek feels like he’s been punched in the stomach even though Scott looks guilty for having said it. “I don’t think that’s… I don’t think,” he stutters. He doesn’t think what? He doesn’t think it’s about him, for one thing. He’s not that naïve. If he’d talked about it months ago, that’d have been before… before he showed up on his porch and brought him out on tour and kissed him like he was starting to forgive him…

“I’m not blaming you,” Scott says quickly.

“Yeah, you are,” Derek says, surprising himself. Scott opens and closes his mouth in shock a few times, searching for words. “Talk to him about this, not me,” Derek says before he finds them.

The music is rolling and dark and sexual and gorgeous as Erica and Stiles sing the final chorus and Derek is trying his hardest not to let what Scott said take root in his head. 

“Do I wanna know? Do you want me crawling back to you?”

Derek catches Stiles’ silhouette against the gold lit crowd, trim waist and long limbed, before the stage goes dark.

Hours later, when they should be trying to catch some sleep before their drive to Warsaw, Stiles and Derek sit against the headboard with their packed bags around them. Derek listens to his soft, even breath and loves him. His hand rests next to his on the bed in between them and he wants to stretch his pinky out to touch him. That’s all the movement it would take to close the circuit between them. But he doesn’t.

“What do you want?” Derek asks, breaking a twenty minute stretch of comfortable silence. 

“Hm?” Stiles murmurs, drowsy. “Nothing?”

“I mean… in a perfect world, what would your life be like?” Derek had a professor, one of the few who took him seriously, ask him that once. He’d been unable to answer.

Stiles hums thoughtfully for a second. Derek watches his face and can only imagine the castles he’s building behind his eyes. “It’d be a lot like it is now, just better.”

“Better how?”

Stiles turns his head to look at him straight on. Even with dark circles under his eyes and his hair a wreck and exhaustion written into every feature, he’s the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen. “Just better,” he answers, smiling. And Derek feels like he’s trying to peek through a gap in the curtains behind a closed window. Locked out, distant, cold.

When Stiles’ hand breaches the distance between them and curls around his wrist, he feels a little warmer. “How about you?”

So many scattered thoughts surface in response to the question. Making music, touring, keeping these people in his life, waking up next to Stiles and kissing him and making him coffee before they face the day together… But he’s not in the position to say any of that. 

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be in school anymore. I’d put some work into my house. Figure out the yard. Maybe even do something with the flower boxes.”

“Flower boxes, huh?” Stiles smiles and shakes his head. “How domestic.”

**

November 6th.  
Warsaw, Poland.

Stiles sits up in the catwalks, head buzzing, throat constricting, fists in his hair. He had hoped the unease of being so high up above the stage, looking down through the beams and rails and lights and speakers and cables, would be distracting. It isn’t. 

He can hear the local stagehands speaking Polish amongst themselves below him and he can understand every word. That’s oddly comforting. And none of it is about them or the venue or anything. Basketball, they’re talking about basketball. That’s refreshingly normal. 

They had just finished their last interview of the day when Allison pulled them into a conference room. She had been a tightly wound coil. They knew something was wrong just by the way she held her shoulders and clenched her jaw. 

“Isaac quit.”

Stiles had known he was going to quit. He’d felt it. He’d pretty much chalked up his leave of absence to him quitting anyway. But it still feels like another failure. And Scott slamming out of the room had felt like another. Derek had put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder but he shrugged it off and left too. He’d forgotten… he’d stopped thinking about it, but it was still there. He’d forgotten how heavy this brand of guilt felt…

He hears footsteps in the cats and he forces himself to look. Jackson kicks at piles of coiled cables and pretends to look at the speakers.

“Don’t jump,” he says dryly when he gets closer to Stiles. 

“I might now that you’re here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why are you up here?”

“Why are you?”

“Occupational necessity.” A pause as he drops to sit next to Stiles. “I heard. About Isaac.”

“Yeah.”

“Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe Derek will stick around then.”

“Maybe.”

“If you guys don’t break up.”

“We’re not together,” Stiles defends. Jackson gives him a disgusted look.

“I meant the band.”

“Oh.”

“And you shouldn’t let _the band_ break up.”

“Why not?”

“I’d be out of a job.”

“You’d just be off with another band.”

“But I like you guys,” he says casually, but the uncomfortable glance he shoots toward Stiles has a lot of weight to it.

Stiles doesn’t comment on it out of common decency. 

“Isaac’s great, but Derek’s better,” Jackson continues. “Better bassist, better singer…”

“That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point then?”

“The point is that people know there’s something wrong. Losing Derek was a shit storm but no one suspected that it was our fault he left. Lose another bassist, though? The press is already speculating that we’re all going to quit. Fans are freaking out. It’s a big thing.”

Jackson hmmms next to him. “Didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck the press.”

Stiles lets out a huff of laughter and gives Jackson an appreciative smile. Jackson smiles back. It’s weird.

“Your guy’s looking for you, by the way,” Jackson says as he uses the railing to pull himself back to standing.

“He’s not my _guy_.”

“Uh huh, sure. Now get the fuck out of the cats before we get slapped with a fine, asshole.”

Stiles makes his way back down to the stage and spots Lydia and Derek sitting on the floor out in the house. 

“What are they talking about?” Lydia asks, pointing toward the stage with her chin when Stiles drops onto the floor next to them. 

Stiles tilts his head toward the stage as he listens to the stagehands' melodic conversation. “Their families,” he answers after awhile.

Lydia smiles at him. “What a weird language,” she comments. “It’s cool that you speak it.”

“Dzięki.”

“What does that mean?” she asks, leaning against him.

“It means thanks.”

She repeats him and he corrects her pronunciation a few times. He laughs into her hair when she finally gets it.

“I don’t want you to hate him,” Lydia says softly, nuzzling her face against Stiles’ shoulder. “Even though it’s very tempting.”

Derek’s eyes meet his over Lydia’s head. He gives him a small smile.

“I don’t,” Stiles assures her.

“He meant to tell us when we got back to the States, he didn't mean for it to get out. You left before Allison said that part.”

“So how’d it leak?”

“Allison’s trying to figure that out.”

Stiles sighs. Danny’s on the stage with a lighting plot in hand, calling out numbers and staring up at his fixtures as someone turns them on. Jackson’s throwing static from speaker to speaker. Greenberg’s fussing around the stage. The techs are goofing off in the wings. It’s weird how normal everything is for everyone else but them. 

“Jackson said you were looking for me?” Stiles asks, tearing his eyes away from the stage.

“Just wanted to see if you were okay,” Derek answers. 

Stiles feels his cheeks get hot and his chest tighten as they exchange private smiles over Lydia’s head.

**

The show went surprisingly well, all things considered. Erica and Stiles scrapped the cover they had been planning in lieu of a very stripped down rendition of Three Little Birds. The audience sang along and waved their lit up phones above their heads and Lydia hugged Scott as they watched from the side. Derek felt an atmospheric sense of calm rippling from the stage, settling over everyone. Stiles was like that when he wanted to be -- influential, commanding, reassuring. 

After the show, Stiles spent as much time talking to fans as he could get away with. Boyd had already herded Scott, Lydia and Derek onto the bus but Stiles refused to budge. Derek watches him from the back lounge’s window, smiling softly as he observes Stiles hugging fans and signing things and taking pictures with them, his lips forming indecipherable words and sentences the entire time. Stiles’ Polish, according to him, was inelegant and childish, but he looked so secure and free when he spoke it. 

It’s well after midnight when Boyd and Marcus finally tear Stiles away and onto the bus. Royales had decided to give them space and piled on the crew bus for a sleepover, leaving the rest of them to simmer in their own melancholy. Or in Boyd’s case, his dedication to sleeping through the whole drive. While he retreated to his bunk, everyone else holed up in the back lounge. Allison threw on a movie as they all sunk into the couches.

“Wow, I just read a very in depth analysis of our Twitter interactions,” Lydia says about twenty minutes into the drive.

“What about them?” Stiles asks cautiously. 

“Well, Stiles, you didn’t wish me a happy birthday last year. But things had seemed tense between us leading up to that anyway.”

Stiles chuckles. “I was too busy suffering through a spa day with you to tweet you, I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“Anything else?” Scott asks.

“Derek and Stiles still don’t follow each other so who knows what’s going on with them. Scott, you and Erica flirt a lot apparently. Oh and uh, Isaac… unfollowed all of us a couple weeks ago...”

Derek shifts uncomfortably in the resounding silence. Allison sighs and pauses the movie.

“I guess we should talk about this,” she says wearily. 

“About Twitter?” Lydia asks, feigning stupid. Derek can tell by the look on her face that she didn’t necessarily mean to breach the topic. “I could probably find one of these about Instagram instead…”

Allison gives one firm shake of her head and Lydia sighs as she seems to melt further into the couch.

“I’ll let you guys...” Derek starts, standing up. 

“Stay,” Allison tells him. He sits obediently, his stomach twisting with trepidation. “I know this is a blow for all of us, but we need to keep it together. We only have a week left, five shows, we can handle this. So let’s get our frustrations out now and—“

“Okay,” Scott says, sounding deadly. “Let’s talk.”

“Oh God,” Lydia grumbles, covering her face with both hands. Stiles remains eerily silent.

“Scott,” Allison warns. 

“He,” Scott starts, pointing at Stiles. “Freaks out because you—“ He points at Derek. “—Were in New York at the same time as we were. Then he starts to get all caught up in his head about it. He stops talking to us. He gets moody. Fine, whatever. We didn’t tell him we had seen you because we knew he’d have some stupid little meltdown. And we were right, weren’t we, Stiles?”

Derek turns his head to look at Stiles, feeling his own stomach twisting. Stiles is unflinching and tight jawed. Derek already wants this to be over. 

Stiles doesn’t answer.

“What does that have to do with Isaac?” Lydia hisses, hand flying out to Scott’s chest as if to subdue him.

“Derek, you know about the overdose, right?”

“Scott, _cut it out_ ,” Lydia says, voice low like a growl.

“Can you imagine what it would feel like to be Isaac while Stiles is slowly killing himself because _you_ weren’t around?” Scott asks Derek.

“Okay, Scott, that’s enough,” Allison cuts in, standing.

“That had nothing to do with Isaac,” Stiles argues. 

“Maybe not, but you never accepted him anyway.”

“How could you even say that--?”

“You never talked to him! You literally didn’t speak to him until we started touring. The entire time we spent recording, you probably said two words to him—“

“Not because I didn’t accept him, or whatever. I just…” Derek watches something break behind his face. “I didn’t have the energy for it.”

“How nice of you.”

“Scott," Stiles nearly pleads.

“And you hardly ever listened to his input anyway. He felt like he didn’t belong, he felt like you didn’t want him there. You were, you were—“

“I was a selfish little bitch,” Stiles supplies for him, sounding as though he’s quoting someone.

“Yeah, you were. And you know what, he could tell you were jealous of me and him getting closer.”

“Oh, is that so?” Stiles asks with a cruel laugh.

“You _never_ made him feel welcomed, never. You always treated him like a fucking afterthought, you never wanted him to have a place in our band and he always fucking knew it and you have no idea what we’re losing now that he’s quit. You have no idea because you never even tried to let him in—“

“Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t control how he fucking feels. I don’t give a fuck that he quit, he’s a grown man who can do whatever the hell he wants. You think I was jealous of your friendship with him? Fuck you, honestly.” He stands up to leave but Scott blocks his path.

“You pushed him over the fucking edge with that New York shit. He was friends with Derek too. You didn’t care about Isaac, but you wanted to make sure he knew you were the boss, you didn’t want him to go anywhere near him. Not your perfect Derek. Derek was all yours. All yours to miss, all yours to hate, all yours. You’re a selfish asshole, you know that?”

“Scott, you know that’s bullshit,” Lydia says with shaking fury.

Derek’s still watching Stiles even as he's flinching inwardly every time he hears his name. He feels paralyzed. He feels uncomfortable. He feels guilty. Stiles’ mouth is set in a stiff, straight line and his brows are furrowed.

Scott completely ignores both of them as he continues. “You were so fucking set on self-destructing because things weren’t going your way, and you wanted to take us down with you. You never gave a fuck about what we wanted anyway, you just went ahead and started falling apart and then you went ahead and pulled Derek back into it. You hated us for just _talking_ to him and then you went and did that. And then you held it over Isaac’s head as if you were saving the fucking band by bringing him back. Like you were trying to remind him that he was never your first choice anyway and now that you’re finally fucking him again, you’re happy—“

“SCOTT, that’s enough,” Allison commands as Boyd lumbers through the door looking furious.

Derek takes his eyes off Stiles just long enough to catch a glimpse of Lydia’s tear streaked face. Scott is still yelling. Allison is yelling back. And he can’t make out a single word of it. He feels, suddenly, as though he’s watching this all happen from within a different body. He’s speechless and numb and confused. When he turns his face back toward Stiles, it’s just in time to see him slip past Boyd toward the bunks. And Derek, without any real thought, feels himself moving to follow him.

**

Stiles can hear Allison yelling over Scott, and he can hear the general chaos from everyone else, but he can’t make out a thing over the blood rushing in his ears. He feels the world tilting from side to side, he squeezes his eyes shut against it, his whole body is screaming with adrenaline, he feels sick…

“Stiles,” Derek says softly from behind him. His hand comes down on his shoulder and things get clearer, for just a second.

“I… I… I’m sorry,” he stutters, choking on a sob. 

Derek shushes him and tugs at him until he turns. When his feet feel uncertain under him, Derek’s other arm flies out to support him. “Nothing to be sorry—“

“I’m sorry,” Stiles sobs again. The air in his lungs feels liquid. His cheeks are hot and wet.

“For what?” Derek asks. 

Stiles doesn’t know. Probably because he felt so wrong about how many times Scott had said Derek’s name while yelling at him. Probably because he didn’t want Derek to see that. Derek pulls him a little closer, gripping his arms to keep him steady. “You know he’s just mad, right? He doesn’t mean it,” Derek says. 

Stiles feels all energy seep out of him. He just shakes his head. No, Scott means it. He definitely means it. And he might even be right. 

“Don’t you dare blame yourself,” Derek says sternly, forcing Stiles to look him in the eye. “You can’t let this eat you up.” There’s a frantic, worried look about him. “Just… take it out on me instead. Yell at me or hit me or—“

“No. I don’t… I don’t want to. I don’t want to…” hurt anyone. He doesn’t want to keep hurting people. He doesn’t want to keep this up. His mind cycles and cycles and spirals out of control. They can’t fix this one. He’d thought they might make it, but they won’t. Too much had happened. Stiles feels himself start to slip a little. Derek catches him again, his arm around his waist. 

“Then what do you want?” he asks. “Right now, what do you want to do? What can I do?”

“I just want to sleep,” Stiles confesses, voice wavering. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me.” Derek’s voice is firm. 

“You can go back to them, I don’t need you on my side, you can be neutral, you can go…” Stiles attempts. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

“You’re not dragging me into anything.” 

When he says it like that, his arm tightening around him, his nose against Stiles’ temple… he almost believes him.

“I just want to sleep.” Stiles tries to slide out of his grip, he reaches up and grasps the edge of his bunk. He has no idea how he’s going to get up there with his hands shaking like they are and his heart hammering like it is and his blurring vision, but he will. 

“Here,” Derek says, somehow maneuvering him until he’s sitting on the edge of the middle bunk, Derek’s bunk. “Crawl in…”

“This is yours. I don’t want to be in your bed, I don’t want…”

“It’s fine, you can have it…”

“I don’t want to be in your bed.” Not by himself, not surrounded by the ghost of his sleeping breath, not wrapped up in his blankets, not without him.

“Stiles.” That tone of voice means Stiles is getting difficult. Stiles shrinks from it. He wants to fold in on himself. He wants to collapse. He’s sorry, he so sorry. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Stiles cries. God, how embarrassing. He’s squeezing his eyes shut and everything is moving and he feels like dying and then he’s lying down and there are hands on him and then everything gets quieter. 

“Stop it,” Derek’s voice rumbles. Stiles can feel it more than he can hear it, his face is against his throat… Stiles wrings his hands in Derek’s shirt. Part of Stiles’ back is against the cold wall. He opens his eyes and it’s dark. All he can hear is tires on asphalt and a humming engine and his own shuddering, uneven breath. “Breathe,” Derek whispers.

Derek’s arms are securely wrapped around him. Stiles focuses on the rise and fall of his chest as an example. Inhale... exhale... he feels his heart rate start to slow and his hands slowly release Derek’s shirt. He’s breathing. He’s fine. He’s okay. 

“You’re alright,” Derek whispers, one hand rubbing his side. 

It’s not lost on Stiles that every time he runs away, Derek’s there. Whether Stiles is running to him or Derek is chasing him, he’s there. And that’s a type of calm Stiles had completely forgotten about. 

**

Stiles falls asleep with his face pressed against Derek’s throat and Derek’s thankful. The fight had drained right out of him once he realized that Stiles’ metered breathing had transitioned to the involuntary cadence of sleep. The silence and their little world of calm feels like shelter. He focuses on Stiles’ breath. On his warm, solid form. On protecting him. On letting him sleep peacefully…

And then suddenly, Derek wakes up to a flashlight beam bouncing off the back of the bunk and Stiles squinting beyond him in confusion. There’s no way they’re already in Vienna.

“Bus broke down,” Boyd grunts. “We need to get off while Lou checks some things out.”

Stiles groans pitifully. 

They stand in a straight line outside the bus. Their driver clanks around the engine compartment while Marcus holds a flashlight for him. It’s still dark out. It’s snowing. Stiles is shivering in his blanket. Lydia is lost in a parka. Scott’s hood is up and tied so tight that all Derek can make out of his face is his nose. Allison is letting out a steady stream of curses. After careful examination of the past twenty four hours, Derek is now 100% sure he’s just a character in an indie dark comedy.

“Please, please dear God, let this nightmare end,” Allison prays, holding her arms out to the sky. 

“Dramatic,” Scott grumbles.

“Shut up,” Lydia spits.

“I said one word, Lydia, okay—“

“Everyone keep your fucking mouths shut,” Boyd growls beside them.

Stiles’ shivering intensifies so Derek pulls him against his side.

“Good news and bad news!” Lou says from underneath the bus some time later.

“Bad news first,” Allison requests.

“We’re going to need a mechanic.”

“Fantastic. And the good news?”

“She’s not going to explode, so you’re free to go inside.” 

“Wonderful.”

“I’d suggest you all pile up in the back lounge to keep warm.”

“Great,” Allison grumbles. Derek shares her sentiment. 

“I know a guy in Krakow, don’t worry,” Lou continues. 

“We’re still in Poland?” Allison asks, her voice rising.

Lou nods, shaking snow flakes out of his beard, as if this is great news. This is not great news.

They wordlessly gather their blankets and pillows and sweaters and they lay in the dark, still and silent. Stiles had shoved himself in the narrow space between Derek and the wall as if to keep as far away as possible from anyone else and Derek can't stop focusing on his body heat. Derek is absolutely wide awake.

An eternity passes. “Is anyone even asleep?” Allison whispers, sitting up.

There’s a chorus of groans and “no”s in response. She struggles to her feet and disappears without explanation.

She comes back less than a minute later.

“Fuck it,” Allison says in a sing-song voice, stepping carefully over legs and blankets and pillows with her arms wrapped around the twenty-four pack from the fridge. “Who wants a goddamn drink?” She sets the box down with a heavy thunk and plops down.

It doesn’t take long for everyone to reluctantly give up their post to gather around Allison. She sweetly offers a drink to Lou when he comes back to give them a battery operated lantern, but he declines and leaves quickly. Allison has a sinister look about her in the light playing at her features…

“So, let’s talk,” she says.

**

“Christ,” Boyd curses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He downs half his bottle and sets it on an end table before curling back up on the couch.

“So who wants to go first?” Allison presses. “Is it Scott? I sure hope it’s Scott.”

Scott casts his eyes downward and refuses to acknowledge her.

“I mean, I just think now would be a great time for an apology or something because he’s the one who… let’s see… brought up someone’s past drug abuse. And blamed that someone for someone else quitting the band. And did all of that while insulting yet another someone, making someone else cry and shitting all over everyone’s night.”

“And waking Boyd up,” Boyd’s muffled voice informs them from inside his sweater.

“Yes. And that.” She nods solemnly.

Stiles groans and buries his face in Derek’s shoulder.

“C’mon, Scott, what do you have to say?” she prods.

Scott stays quiet. Everyone stays quiet. 

And then Derek clears his throat. “I’ll start,” he says. Stiles whips his head up to look at him. 

“Huh?” Allison asks, tilting her head. 

“I just… I don’t want to watch you guys tear yourselves apart, I care… um, I care too much about all of you to just… sit and watch.”

“Shut up, Derek,” Scott says, sounding exhausted and pained and guilt-laden. 

“No. I left you guys like a coward and I’m sorry. I’m proud of you all for keeping it up and I don’t want to watch this.”

“Does that translate to you voting for Scott to apologize?” Allison asks after a somber second.

“I think they need to talk things out, yeah, but um…” He shrugs. “You two have been friends for a long time, Lydia too, and I just think you all need to talk for once.”

Stiles joins Scott and Lydia in staring at Derek in moderate shock. Stiles has to swallow down the urge to point out how rich that is coming from him, the one who quit over the phone and disappeared. He has to reconcile the silently suffering, anxiety ridden Derek of yesteryear with the brave one who willingly came out of retirement to save their asses even though he knew it would probably suck.

Derek shifts uncomfortably under their gaze. “I mean, I’ve just… you guys haven’t… since I’ve been around, that is, I uh… You guys don’t ever just… fix things, you just cover it all up and…” He clears his throat and schools his face into a stern expression. “We’re going to talk about this.” Stiles can practically hear the crack of a whip. Derek Hale has spoken.

Stiles doesn’t miss the small, knowing smile Allison gives Derek. No one dares to disagree with a stern Derek. 

And yet they’re silent. Uncomfortable. Unsure as to where to start. Allison takes a long drink and clears her throat.

“Well, personally, I’m sorry I even brought it up,” she admits. 

Stiles can’t help but smile a little at that.

But still, no one says anything.

Stiles can hear Lou and Marcus clanging around the bus, the whistling wind outside… he can even hear the soft fizzing from his own opened but untouched beer bottle.

“Alright,” Allison says after awhile. “What was that game you two used to play all the time?”

“Fair/Unfair?” Derek asks, sounding surprised.

“Yeah. How do you play?”

“Uh, someone says something to someone else, they deem the something Fair or Unfair, then they say something back.”

“How does that work in a group?” Allison asks.

Stiles and Derek exchange looks. They could never get anyone to play it with them. Not for more than a couple rounds of statements, at least. The last time they’d tried, Lydia had argued that they should say True and False instead. (“Fairness has too many nuances, like what are you even saying fair to? Fair as in true, fair as in just? Unfair as in false, unfair as in unjust, unfair as in… you don’t want to talk about it? Rude? This game is fucking stupid.” Stiles had smiled at her and said, “Exactly.”)

Unfair isn’t always false. “You’re in love with me” had not been false for Derek but it had been Unfair. It had been Unfair of Stiles to say it then, to break the silence, to force it out of him. Stiles had brought it up, fully naked in bed together for the first time, while Derek’s world was spinning out of control.

What’s Fair is not always right. “You’re in love with me.” When Stiles said Fair, he said it with fire in his chest. Anger and heat. Derek had brought it up after a date with Paige. Had said it after making out with her in his car. Had said it with her lipstick still on his neck. 

And sometimes they slipped in demands, cues, requests, desires… You can’t say “true” to “kiss me,” but you can say Fair…

And there’s a point to every game of Fair/Unfair. A confession to ferret out, a topic to breach, a new step to take… Both of them had always understood that. Maybe Allison gets that too, because there’s definitely a point here.

“You um… I guess we could go in a circle. Say your statement, judge a statement, move on,” Stiles suggests.

Lydia sighs. “And how are we defining Fair and Unfair?”

“However you feel like, that’s the whole point,” Stiles tells her.

They start off easily to get the hang of it. To continue avoiding the real situation at hand. (“Scott, your favorite band is Blink-182.” “Fair. Derek, you hate law school.” “Fair. Stiles, you love snow.” “Unfair. Boyd, you think this game is stupid.” “I think this whole thing is stupid.” Etc.) 

Allison is the first one to take it deeper after a few full circles. “Scott, you miss Isaac.”

There’s a long pause before he mutters: “Fair.” They all stew in the moment for awhile, the tone markedly changed, before Scott continues. “Derek, you feel guilty for leaving us.”

“Fair.”

And they continue that way for awhile. Simply stating facts about what everyone has noticed but no one has been able to say. 

“Lydia, you’ve been looking at colleges,” Boyd says softly, hesitantly.

Lydia looks guilty when she says that’s Fair. Stiles feels like he’s been punched in the gut but he doesn’t react. 

When they’re quiet, they can hear Lou and Marcus singing out of tune or mumbling together under the bus.

“Um, Allison. Your dad is giving you a lot of shit because of us,” Lydia says after the two of them finish the chorus of Lovely Bunch of Coconuts.

“Fair.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles mutters. Scott and Lydia look guilty too.

“No, don’t be. I um… fight for you guys a lot and I wouldn’t have it any other way, alright? I can handle it.” She gives them a motherly, dimply smile that makes Stiles want to kiss her on the forehead. “Should we switch directions?” And then she sounds bashful when she says Lydia would be happier in college. She looks relieved when Lydia says that’s Unfair.

“You’re totally in love with Erica, I don’t even need to hear your response, I already know,” Lydia says to Boyd.

“Fair,” he answers with a grin. Lydia holds her beer up and they clink their bottles together. It’s unfortunate that Stiles is drinking when Boyd turns to him with an off-putting smile. “Stiles, you and Derek are back at it.”

Stiles chokes. Derek thumps his back until Stiles stops coughing. “Unfair on the grounds that “it” is a very general term that could mean anything. Back at being band mates? Currently, yes…”

“Oh c’mon,” Allison complains while Boyd boos him. 

Stiles looks at Derek and sees him sporting a smug smile. Stiles elbows him.

“I mean, Scott already blew your cover earlier. I’m offended that you told him and not me but that’s fine,” Lydia says haughtily. “Good for you two.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Stiles mutters. He segues to his statement quickly before anyone can start yelling about it, before his own guilt and anger can settle back in. “Derek, you’re not going back to school.”

**

From the little thrill of panic brought on by Boyd’s statement right into this… He opens and closes his mouth wordlessly a couple times, Stiles’ dark eyes set on him with laser-like focus… He hadn’t really been thinking about that at all. He had admitted to hating Hastings as early back as London and he had said that his perfect world wouldn’t include school, but he hadn’t really considered…

“Fair,” he says, surprising himself. And he knows it’s the right answer. Dropping out is a no-brainer. 

“We did it, guys, we officially de-programmed him,” Stiles declares. 

“I just hate it so much.”

“Of course you do,” Lydia scoffs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Derek asks, offended.

Lydia stretches her leg out to kick him affectionately. “That you love the stage too much to ever love the court room.”

He reaches out to squeeze her ankle lovingly. Because she’s right. While the rest of them “awwww” about it, Allison catches Derek’s attention from across the way. She gestures toward Scott with her eyes and Derek knows that she wants things to keep going. 

He has to make this count. He could address his and Stiles’ blow out head on, or he could back into it… Luckily, Boyd teases Lydia about her educational hypocrisy while he thinks. 

Derek had been struck by how much they’d all changed. Back in LA, Derek couldn’t stop observing them, wanting to catalog every little difference, to catch up. Because he had missed them. Sincerely, deeply missed them. But he hadn’t noticed that much of a change in Scott until Oslo. He’d never known Scott to be mean, not even on accident. He’d never known Scott to hold a grudge or bend to the temptation to be petty. He'd never known him to hide his affection for others like he had been up until Stiles punched a guy for him in London. When the rest of him seemed to have stayed the same, why had that part of him emerged?

And then it hits him. Scott had always been fearless. Secure. Confident. Hopeful. 

“Scott, you’re scared shitless,” Derek says finally.

Scott's eyes are wide, glimmering in the low light, his mouth slightly parted… “Of what?” he stammers.

“Of losing this.” The band, touring, Stiles and Lydia, Allison and Boyd, everyone… Derek remembers the feeling well. Remembers what it felt like to actually lose it all… Derek knows it’s something worth being afraid of.

“I um…” he starts, tearing his eyes off of Derek to stare at his hands.

“I am,” Lydia confesses softly. Scott looks up at her. 

“Me too,” Stiles mutters.

Derek feels like he’s melting into the background as he watches them all work it out on their faces, looking toward each other but totally separate. Allison and Boyd remain silent as if they’re afraid to spook them. Marcus and Lou’s booming laughter filters in from outside, but the mood inside is heavy…

“Fair,” Scott says finally, his voice thick in his throat.

“You see everything that goes wrong as a nail in a coffin,” Derek says, voice warm and low in his chest. It’s something his father would say. “But it isn’t. I quit this band on my own and it was no one’s fault. And you kept going. I definitely didn’t mean to quit you all too. And I’m sure that’s true for Isaac…”

“I get it,” Scott says, rubbing his face with his sleeve. “Thanks, it’s fine.”

“You guys went on without me, if you want this bad enough you’ll go on without him too.”

Scott’s face is in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He nods. Allison shifts closer to put her hand on his shoulder.

“And I think you do want this, otherwise you wouldn’t be so scared.” Stiles curls his arm around Derek’s, rests his chin on his shoulder… And Derek wants this too, all of it. And he’s terrified.

Scott looks up with a loud sniff, his eyes snapping to Stiles who pulls his face away from Derek just enough to make eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry," Scott murmurs.

“No worries, bro,” Stiles says with a sincere, sleepy smile. They gaze at each other, communicating in whatever telepathic way they’ve developed over the many years of their friendship while everyone watches.

“Alright, that’s one apology down, a couple to go,” Allison chirps after a few seconds, clapping her hands together. Lydia laughs as her head lolls back against the couch. Boyd huffs. Scott groans. 

**

The mechanic from Krakow got to them around 6. The sun was slowly rising, sparkling on the freshly fallen snow, when they filed off the bus. The back lounge had gotten stuffy with their body heat and breath and the smell of beer anyway. Scott and Stiles brought their guitars so they could serenade Lou and Marcus with the songs they’d heard them singing throughout night. Seeing their stout, ruddy faced bus driver and their gigantic head of security doubled over in laughter was so worth braving the cold. Allison had the camera out and had convinced Lydia to act like she was hosting a wild life documentary.

They all cheered when the bus engine roared back to life just a little after 8, piled back onto the bus and promptly fell asleep for the remaining four hours to Vienna.

Bus 2 and the truck had made it without any problems, so Smokes shows up to a fully loaded in venue. 

“Oh look, they didn’t end up eating each other after all,” Jackson drawls at them when they shuffle in. 

“It was a close thing,” Allison assures him. There are bags under her eyes and she’s wearing a wrinkled t-shirt, but she seems happy. 

“Things got desperate near the end there, Scott tried to go after Marcus,” Boyd says with all seriousness. “There’s video evidence.”

Allison taps the camera she has hanging around her neck and nods. Stiles laughs at the memory of Scott tackling Marcus into a snow bank. “Danny, how do you feel about editing together an adventure documentary?” Allison asks as she walks off in his direction.

“We missed you guys at breakfast,” Aiden tells them, a teasing smirk on his face.

Stiles goes to collapse on the couch next to Erica while Scott and Aiden play fight about it. She slides the magazine in her lap over to him with a wolfish grin and taps a paragraph near the bottom of the page.

_“The return of Derek Hale, no matter how temporary, seems to have invigorated them. Their sold out performance in London was a testament to their trademark energy, but the chemistry on stage crackled in a way that fans hadn’t even realized they’d missed. While Lahey had easily slipped into his role as the band’s replacement bassist, Hale fills his former station and commands it with a confidence that can only be bred of familiarity, respect and the joy of a happy homecoming. And though we admire Lahey and Smokes’ resilience in Hale’s wake, we have to admit that there is nothing more pleasurable than seeing this band perform the way they had when we first fell for them. Once again, they are a fearless group of kids who fit together like a puzzle, who build each other up and riff off of one another with an instinctual ease, and who seem like they never work a day in their lives for how much they love what they do.”_

The article goes on to list the rest of their UK dates, meaning it’s from before Isaac’s departure, but it gives him a little hope anyway. He realizes with a spreading warmth in his chest that Erica knew that it would. He rolls up the magazine and thwaps her on the head with it.

“They didn’t even call him broody in this one,” Erica tells him, batting his hand away. “And if you’re looking for reading material, you should read the write up of Royales on the next page, just saying. They called us a Midwestern trio with a sophisticated, metropolitan sound.”

“Ooh, sounds like story time to me. Everyone, gather around,” Stiles announces, unrolling the magazine and flipping to the next page. He waits until he has the room's attention and starts reading out loud as Erica wiggles with excitement next to him. His voice is rough with exhaustion as he reads but he's in a room full of people he loves, this fearless group of puzzle pieces, and he's happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Doomed Like We Were" is a lyric from Phone Call From Poland by Bayside. (And we're back with the somewhat geographical song references ahh yeah!)
> 
> The Berlin cover is "Do You Wanna Know" by Arctic Monkeys.
> 
> The Warsaw cover is "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley. The reason for that being that when Panic! at the Disco split down the middle and ruined my life, Brendon Urie covered this song as a gesture to the fans and now I'm getting emotional about it so yeah. And that's the version I'm putting on 8tracks. :)
> 
> Not that I think it needs to be pointed out but Lovely Bunch of Coconuts is a Monty Python thing and it's not going on the 8tracks despite how fantastic it is. :D
> 
> I constantly have hearts for eyes because of you guys and I always want to respond to your lovely comments with a picture of me crying on the floor and _I saw that gifset, guys, you're in big trouble report to my office for hugs_. As I said to my friend re:that, "They is pumpkins." So thank you, sincerely. 
> 
> I ALSO WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I LISTEN TO EVERY SONG YOU GUYS REC AND I SCREAM ABOUT HOW PERFECT THEY ALL ARE. <3


	19. Postcards from Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Alex Turner says, "Baby, we both know that the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day." Ya feel? ;)
> 
> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

November 8th.  
Milan, Italy.

There’s a picture of them tucked in Derek’s wallet. 

Allison’s face is split in a radiant smile, eyes closed as she rests her nose against Lydia’s cheek. There’s a gleam of tears in the corner of Lydia’s eyes, mouth open in ancient peals of laughter, a sound Derek can almost hear. Her hand is wrapped around Stiles’ wrist, Stiles’ arm is wrapped around Scott and Derek’s necks, holding them both impossibly close to him. 

Derek remembers that photo booth, tucked in a beachside bar that catered to an older crowd than the raging bars not too far away that had refused their fake IDs. An older man had bought a drink for Allison and Lydia and told them, “Sometimes a man needs to buy a couple of pretty girls a drink.” A middle aged woman in a halter top had slipped Scott her number. The bartender only served Stiles if he leaned over the bar and kissed her on the cheek. 

He’d kept that picture of them in his wallet for years, behind his library card in the middle slot. Just in case. Just for rainy days. And today it was raining. When he had reached for his wallet to pay at breakfast, it’d fallen out. It’d never fallen out before.

He’d forgotten that Allison’s hair was so short then and that Lydia had a nose ring for about a week. He’d forgotten that Scott had gotten a buzz-cut in solidarity with Stiles after an unfortunate incident involving floppy hair and trying to light a bowl in the wind. 

He turns it over in his hands. “Beach Ball, Newport Beach. 2012.” He remembers sneaking out to the beach just beyond the parking lot. He remembers climbing up an empty lifeguard tower. He remembers pushing Stiles against the sandy, damp wood and crawling on top of him and kissing him, the sound of the ocean roaring out in the dark. Telling him he didn’t want to see him kissing anyone but him, especially not some bartender. Stiles laughed into his neck, his hands hot where they slipped under Derek’s shirt. “You’re in luck, because I don’t want to be kissing anyone but you anyway.” 

Derek runs his thumb across the bottom edge, feeling the jagged tear. Derek can’t remember what the second picture in the strip looked like anymore, but he knows where it is. 

“What’s that?” Lydia asks, leaning her cheek against his arm. She gasps when he angles it toward her and stretches her neck to get a better look. “I still have mine too!” she exclaims. “Guys, look!”

Scott and Allison lean over to look, their reactions mirroring Lydia’s.

“You’ve had that in your wallet all this time without sharing?” Allison asks, grinning at him.

“I’d forgotten about it,” Derek lies. 

“Stiles, look,” Scott says. Derek hands the picture to him so he can show him.

“Oh, wow,” Stiles says, sounding a little less enthused than the rest of them. Scott doesn’t notice. Instead, he proceeds to show whoever wants to see it.

“Mine is in a box of ticket stubs at my parent’s house,” Lydia says, smiling up at Derek. “You’re a sap.”

“The second one we did is framed and hanging in my office,” Allison says, watching Erica, Aiden and Ethan coo about it.

“Mine is in a guitar case somewhere,” Scott adds. 

Stiles doesn’t chime in. The rest of the table gets swept up in conversation, the picture gets passed back to Derek. Stiles looks at him with an expression he can’t quite decipher.

**

October 2nd, 2014.  
Los Angeles, CA.

It was gone. Stiles couldn’t live in the same space with it, so he got rid of it. He found the worn notebook, its leathery hide crossed with lines from where they bent the cover back or curled it into a tube to shove it in the back pockets of their jeans. It was sprouting loose pages and folded up napkins and receipts and other little bits of paper they’d used when they had nothing else to write on. 

When Stiles went to shove it in a manila envelope, a small picture fell out. Derek and Stiles kissing while Allison, Lydia and Scott pretended to throw up. He turned it over in his hand. “Beach Ball. Newport Beach. 2012.”

He slid it under the cover and sealed the envelope. He wrote Derek’s address on the front with the label’s address as the return. He put every stamp he could find on it. He handed it directly to the well-timed mailman, a moment of painful serendipity, and it was gone. Years of work. In transit. Never to return. Gone. 

And Derek was gone too.

He’d called to tell him as much. How generous.

His house seemed even more cavernous than it had before. In an hour, Scott and Lydia would show up for a band meeting and Stiles would have to tell them about it. And he could recite the conversation in full for them if they wanted him to, because he could still remember every second of it like it was scarred into his eardrums. 

“When are you supposed to be getting in?” Stiles had asked.

“I’m not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not coming.”

“Not coming today?” Stiles asked evenly, trying to keep his sky-rocketing heart rate in check.

“Not coming at all.”

Derek had sounded so serious. So wooden.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I quit the band, Stiles.”

“No. You’re just… nervous. I know this is a big step for us, but it’ll be fine. You’ve got this—“

“I sold my portion of the rights to the label. I ended my contract. Everything is already settled—“

“No. No you fucking didn’t. This isn’t funny, Derek.”

“I know it isn’t.” And there it was. Remorse. Something real and tangible in his voice that Stiles could read. 

“No, Derek…”

“I’m sorry.”

“You… fucking sell-out. You… coward. You…” Stiles had thousands of words at the ready but none of them came out.

“I know, I’m sorry—“

“You backstabbing… lying… asshole.”

“Stiles, I just can’t do it anymore.”

“Great, fine. Fine. Okay.” Stiles had felt numb. Still feels numb.

“Please forgive me.”

Stiles couldn’t say a thing to that. 

Derek waited, the soft fuzz of their connection all that Stiles could hear or think about, and then said, “I’m going to tell the others—“

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare talk to them,” Stiles said, his voice a simmering threat. “You don’t deserve to talk to them. I’ll tell them. You can fuck off.” He wanted to protect them from this as much as he could. He wanted to be with them now and only them and he wanted to make sense of this with them. Lydia and Scott and Stiles, that was it. That was going to have to be enough and it would be.

“Fine,” Derek said slowly.

More fuzz. Stiles can still hear it, had felt as though he could even see it – his vision going blurry and unfocused.

“Listen, call me in a couple of days… I’ll explain,” Derek said in a voice he reserved for the bedroom. For saying nice things into Stiles’ hair as he fucked him. For talking late at night in bed. For the few private, couple-like moments they could have while on the road. Stiles suddenly felt sullied by the last time they saw each other. He hated himself for reveling in Derek’s lingering touches the morning they parted.

He just hung up. And he mailed off what felt like his life’s work, his labor of love. And he sat on the stairs and stared at the door until Scott and Lydia arrived.

**

**Present.**

Stiles shook it off. They looked so happy and lovely in the picture and when he looks up at them in the present, he can see how much they’ve grown. Their happiness seems so hard fought and hard won now when it had been so easy then. And he’s proud of it. It’s tender and new, this relationship they’ve all been forming over the course of this tour, but maybe it’s made of tougher stuff. And he looks at Derek and he sees the same guy in that picture, four years older with two years of things Stiles was ignorant of settled into his DNA. 

Derek’s lips twitch in and out of the smallest smile. It makes Stiles want to tell him everything. Talk to him for days on end. See if the physical chemistry still fully compliments the rest of it like it used to. 

The rest of the day is good. Lazy and rainy and beautiful and light-hearted. They haven’t fully unpacked the Pandora’s box presented to them in their broken down bus, but they will. Eventually. Stiles needs to start broaching these conversations, and he wants to start with Derek. The biggest hurdle. The biggest question mark. The most unresolved issue.

But after sound check, Scott gets to him first. He tugs him off down a hallway until they end up in the empty lobby. 

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for outing you and Derek,” Scott says, genuinely surprising Stiles.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles laughs. 

He shrugs. “Still wasn’t cool of me. And I actually didn’t know if you guys were… for sure but I guess… you two are…?”

“Messing around?” Stiles supplies.

Scott rolls his eyes. “You guys really need to talk, because if you don’t you’re going to kill each other.”

“We’re fine,” Stiles brushes off. “And it’s just… nice. It’s nothing… serious or whatever.”

Scott lets out a full-bodied, head-thrown-back bout of laughter. Stiles frowns at him. “As if you two could… oh that’s a good one. I’m going to start taking pictures of you two lovingly gazing at each other as evidence and then you can tell me how not serious it is.”

“Alright, alright,” Stiles concedes. His heart throbs painfully in his chest. Now that Scott’s raised this as a challenge, Stiles feels nervous about it.

“Talk to him,” Scott says, nudging his shoulder.

“About what?” He’s trying to be stubborn. He’s trying to get Scott to outline it for him.

“I don’t know? Whatever? You two have like two years of catching up to do, if you haven’t already. Or at least figure out how you feel _now_ before you guys ruin each other’s lives again.”

Stiles glares at him.

“I love you both, I just want you guys to be okay after all this,” Scott sighs. 

“So you’re okay with it?” Stiles asks.

“It’s not up to me to be okay with it, but yeah I am.”

“And you know…” Stiles feels his cheeks flush. “I’m not… moving because of him.” 

Scott’s brow is furrowed as he narrowly avoids eye contact. “Oh.”

“I’m not choosing him over you. Ever.”

Scott rolls his eyes at him and grins. “I’m not going to have sex with you, so you might want to choose him a liiiittle bit over me.”

Stiles just hugs him. “We need to get you some, you’re too invested in my sex life,” Stiles stage whispers. Scott “ugh”s and shoves him away with a laugh. 

“I’m fine, trust me.”

“But I haven’t heard anything about the hundreds of beautiful women spread across this great continent like I usually do, so—“

“I don’t need them, I don’t want them.”

Stiles tilts his head and narrows his eyes. Scott smiles softly, his eyes going gentle as if he’s thinking about someone special. 

“Who you sleeping with?” Stiles asks suspiciously.

Scott shoves him playfully and starts running back down the hall. “I’ll never tell!” he calls out in a sing-song voice. Stiles takes up the chase, yelling curses and laughing as he goes.

**

Derek was thankful for the weather. He watches the shadows cast by raindrops on the window slowly streak across Stiles’ face and it makes him look like a living painting. Boyd and Allison talk softly about the logistics of the next few days, their voices smoothing out to a comforting hum in the background when Stiles’ eyes met Derek’s. His smile was slow and tired and Derek returned it. 

It had been a good show. Erica and Stiles had covered a somber Paramore song but Stiles had smiled too much through it. (“I’m sorry, I’m in way too good of a mood tonight, Milan,” Stiles had apologized with a laugh afterward.) It had been a really good show, actually. And they were all exhausted from it. And from the rest of the tour starting to catch up. 

They all get off the elevator together, mumble their goodnights and head off down opposite sides of the hall.

And Derek sincerely wants to press Stiles against the wall, kiss him softly and leave him breathless. And he wants to stumble into one of their rooms. And he wants to fall asleep tangled up with him. They walk until they reach Stiles’ door and Derek pauses…

“Hey, you should… if you feel like it, come stay with me maybe?” There’s a tremor in Stiles’ voice as he adjusts his overnight bag on his shoulder.

Derek raises his eyebrow. Stiles looks nervous. “What’s up?” Derek asks.

“Nothing’s up, I just… Tonight. Um… in my room. I mean, do you? Could you?” he stutters, his knuckles going white as he grips the strap. He lets out a frustrated breath. “I mean, you could stay with me if you wanted to.”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah,” Derek says with a nod, resisting the urge to laugh at him.

“It’s not like we… I’m not trying to _do_ anything, I just…” Stiles is flushed. “You don’t have to, really, it’s not a big deal.”

“I can stay,” Derek says uncertainly, giving him a chance to back out. Stiles just nods and turns to unlock his door.

Derek follows him into the room and drops his bag by the door beside Stiles’ stuff. He keeps his eyes trained on Stiles’ stiff shoulders as he kicks off his shoes and starts pacing. 

“Hey,” Derek says softly, walking toward him.

Stiles looks back at him, his eyes a little droopy with fatigue but just as mesmerizing as ever. Clear and bright. “I’m sorry,” Stiles laughs a little. “I didn’t mean for this to be awkward, I just… I’m tired but I just want to talk to you, nothing serious… You really don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

Derek kicks off his own shoes as a gesture. He reaches out and grabs Stiles by the wrist before he can start pacing again. “I want to,” he insists.

He pulls him into a hug and Stiles melts against him. The steady rainfall makes itself apparently in the sudden hush that settles over the room.

“You sure?” he asks, sounding small.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Stiles’ next breath shudders nervously out of him and he pulls away from the hug reluctantly. Derek doesn’t want to let go of him. Derek wants to keep touching him. He seems tiny tonight, tired and used up. Derek wants to fold his larger-than-life Stiles against him and keep him there.

Stiles gives him a sweet little smile before gently slipping out of his grip to sit on the edge of the bed.

Derek busies himself with taking off his coat. He clears his throat. “So uh. I’ve never played Milan before. Great crowd,” he says eventually.

“Yeah you have.”

“I’ve played Rome,” Derek tries to correct.

“The winter tour? Your last European tour with us? We played Milan.”

Derek’s drawing a blank and his face must show it. Stiles looks pained. “I guess you were drunk for most of that tour, weren’t you?”

The knife of guilt twists in his stomach a little. He’d gotten better after that tour. He’d listened to Stiles’ commands to stop drinking and he made a conscious effort to cope better. He doesn’t remember a lot of that tour, but he does remember napping in his bunk with Stiles wrapped around him and holding hands through Paris. He definitely remembers kissing him in Rome, in the middle of the night, in front of a lit up fountain… 

“You have to remember some of it at least,” Stiles pleads.

“I do.” He steps closer to him. Stiles grabs his hand and reels him in. He looks up at him, his face painted with angular shadows, his eyes catching the light…

“Do you remember getting stuck in the mountains? It was snowing like crazy so we had to wait the night out in the bus. Remember?” His hand is so warm around Derek’s. “We stayed up all night talking and jamming with everyone. We found out our bus driver could play guitar. We wrote a few stupid songs. That’s when we sort of wrote ‘Girl.’ We were making fun of some song on the radio that was the most generic pop ballad in the world…”

“I remember,” Derek confesses. The first time he’d heard ‘Girl’, it felt so familiar. After that, he switched stations every time it played on the radio. 

“I kept wanting to write songs about you. I mean, I did. I wrote so many songs about you and I didn’t show anyone. But I wanted Gladiator to be something so different. I tried so hard to make that record without making it about you. And then they said we didn’t have any hits and we were pissed off. We didn’t want to make a radio ready album. I just wanted to mourn you…” His voice is steady even though his eyes are gleaming. “So I thought of that night and that stupid song and we thought they’d hate it but they didn’t. And then it ended up the lead single. And I was slapped in the fucking face every single time I had to play it… And with you around—“

Derek tries to shush him, tries to step away… But he can’t.

“I said that song was about you. It kind of is. I wrote it and recorded it because I hated you and I missed you at the same time. You were the guy worth fighting for but I wasn’t going to. It was a stupid love song and I didn’t want to write a love song about you but I did anyway. It felt like a failure. It has always felt like a failure. And then that’s the song that every single person on this earth knows all the words to and that sucks. That song is a lie. It’s a fucking lie. And I couldn’t play it every night with you on bass. I just couldn’t…” He looks up at Derek with those glimmering eyes and Derek knows that Stiles is too tired for pretense. He’s utterly bare before him.

Derek kneels, cradles his face in his hands, cranes his neck to reach him, whispers, “it’s okay,” against his lips…

“You’ll stay?” Stiles mutters, leaning into his touch. 

There’s something in Stiles tonight that’s shaking like a leaf and Derek’s going to weather it with him. “Yeah.” For as long as you want. Forever. In this hotel room, on my knees in front of you for the rest of time. Whatever you want.

A digital beep sounds out from somewhere outside the sphere of this tiny planet of theirs. Derek’s set on ignoring it but it goes off again and again. Derek pulls away slowly, runs his thumb across Stiles’ lower lip, gives him an apologetic smile. 

“Phone’s dying,” he explains as he stands and heads toward his bag.

“Let it die,” Stiles says with a smirk.

“Just a second,” Derek assures him. He shoves Stiles’ bag aside with his foot and hears a dull rattle. He’d heard it a hundred times before, but this time it catches him. He nudges the bag with his foot and hears it again. He looks over his shoulder at Stiles. “What’s that sound?” he asks, but he’s pretty sure he knows.

“What sound?”

Derek lifts the bag and gives it a shake. Stiles’ face betrays nothing.

“Tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

“What do you think it is?” Stiles asks.

“Sounds like pills.” Stiles shrugs one shoulder. Derek tosses the bag toward Stiles and it lands in a thump at his feet. “What is it?” he asks, nodding toward it. His heart is pounding in his chest, his blood feels like sludge in his veins, panic starting to surge in his head…

Stiles unzips the side compartment and pulls out an orange bottle. Derek’s trying to tell himself it could be anything. Adderall, even though Derek’s pretty sure he stopped taking that years ago, mild pain medication left over from his bruised hand, allergy medication, anything…

“What is it?” Derek asks, voice cautious. 

“Xanax,” Stiles says, shaking the bottle a little.

The tired set of his shoulders, the haunted openness of his face… calls to mind a hospital in Amsterdam.

_”And have you ever received treatment for an overdose?”_

_”August 2015. Xanax and Oxy.”_

Disappointment washes over him, settles in his heavy heart. “So you’re using?” he asks.

“No,” Stiles answers him evenly.

Derek laughs and it sounds cruel even to him. 

**

Derek turns away from him and Stiles doesn’t feel numb about this anymore. Don’t go, don’t go…

“I’m not, Derek, I’m not,” he reasserts, springing to his feet. He crosses the distance between them in a few long strides, gets in front of him. He’s ready for this conversation, he is. He hadn’t anticipated this but he’s ready anyway.

“Have you taken any?”

“No.”

“Then why do you have it?” he asks, sounding hurt.

“I was in a bad place,” Stiles says, ending the sentence with a question-like pitch. He wants to tell Derek everything. He wants to stay awake all night, whispering under the sheets, sliding his hand up and down his arm in though, wrapping his hand around his head and pulling him closer, admitting the things he never says out loud to anyone… Because he had started this tour with Derek from a totally different place than he’s in now. He’d thought he could keep a safe distance between them. He’d though he would be stronger. He’d wanted to be aloof… But he couldn’t and he wasn’t and he didn’t want to be. He wants Derek more than any of that. He wants the very _chance_ of him more than that.

“When?” Derek asks. And he isn’t leaning toward the door anymore.

Stiles presses the bottle into his hands and steps away. It’s a gesture. Of trust. Of surrender. Derek takes it from him and squeezes it in his fist.

“San Francisco.”

“Before or after you showed up at my house?” he asks, sounding venomous.

“Before.”

“You’ve had these that long without taking any?” he asks and Stiles knows he doesn’t quite believe him. He just nods.

“Then why do you still have it?”

Good question. 

“I just…” he attempts. “I don’t know.” He doesn’t know why. He knows why he bought it, but not why he kept it. He had actively chosen against taking it the night he got it, and the day after and pretty much every day after that right up until Oslo. And then the only time he even remembered it was there was when he heard the rattle, sounding like the last exhalation of a tired man. A solemn reminder of a part of him he feared. “I bought it just in case I wanted it. But I haven’t wanted any… I just…” His voice trails off and he feels so exposed.

“How long have you been out of treatment?” Derek asks.

“Clean bill of health as of November, 2015. Therapy, ongoing.”

“And you just… what? You just keep these around just in case? Or is this some stupid strength of will thing?”

Maybe that was it. Stiles’ eyes are locked with Derek’s, his jaw uncomfortably tight.

“And what was Amsterdam all about?” Derek asks. Stiles can see wheels upon wheels spinning in his head.

“That was different. I just wanted to escape a little.”

“And it landed you in a hospital—“

“Because my tolerance is fucked—“ he argues, his voice rising.

“And how did you end up on my doorstep?” The question feels like a punch in the gut, like whiplash. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Derek had been so hurt when Stiles knocked on his door… Stiles hadn’t even considered he still was…

“Because you bought these—“ He shakes the bottle. “—and then you came to see me.”

“I wanted to see you, I told you—“

“Why? Why’d you want to see me?”

“For closure,” he confesses, embarrassed by the desperation in his voice.

“Closure?” he asks, eyes widening. “What were you planning on doing—“

Stiles balks at the accusation in his voice. “I wasn’t going to kill myself, Derek,” he spits. “My band was falling apart, I was falling apart, I just wanted to tie up some loose ends.”

“And now here we are! Tying up loose ends!” he says, motioning widely with outstretched arms. 

Here, yelling in a hotel room in Italy. Here, with Stiles _trying_ harder than he’s ever tried before...

“Flush them,” Stiles says firmly, shattering the hurtful quiet. Because that’s the only closure he wants tonight. That’s the only loose end that needs tying.

Derek’s face softens. “Scott asked me if you were okay in London. He basically said he needed to know if you seemed like you were…”

“Using again,” Stiles supplies.

Derek nods. “He knew we were together in Amsterdam, he just didn’t know what was going on and he was scared. Should he be? Should I? Should we be scared? Are you okay?”

“I’m closer to better than I’ve ever been,” Stiles says softly. 

“I’m not like these, am I?” Derek asks, holding the bottle up between them.

“What do you mean?” 

“You didn’t just bring me out because I’m something to resist, did you?”

He had actively chosen against the Xanax. It was a solemn reminder. But he had sought Derek out because closure was a healthy alternative. And he had picked him because maybe they needed him…

“No,” Stiles says. “We needed you—“

“You would have found someone else.” And there’s a flash of the Derek who sobbed on a bathroom floor in Paris about not being good enough all those years ago. 

“But we needed _you_.” Stiles can see that. He knows that the band started flourishing again with him around. He needs to keep talking because that dark look on Derek’s face needs to be illuminated… “I’d already decided not to take these. I came to you because I wanted to clear the air. I thought it’d be a good place to start saying goodbye to Smokes… I thought it’d help me get through Europe…”

When Derek seems to be spiraling into a pit of quiet desperation, Stiles decides to keep going.

“And I missed you. And I wanted to see you. And I’m glad you’re here and you were… I never… you are perfect. And I missed you in this band and in my life. And I never would ask you to come out with us to test myself, you mean way too much to me for that.” There are alarms going off in his head trying to tell him to shut up. “I missed you constantly. Literally. All the time.” Derek’s face is hard to read. “And there isn’t anyone else on this planet who makes me feel like a human. I didn’t feel like a real person without you. And with you, even at the beginning of this when it was still really uncomfortable, I still felt more grounded…” 

Derek’s just staring at him. Eyes wide, eyebrow raised.

“I didn’t go to you with any expectations. And I definitely didn’t know it would lead to this. Trust me, this is the opposite of what I had wanted. I wanted to feel like I never had to see you again. I wanted to feel like quitting the band was the right thing to do. I wanted this tour to be our farewell tour. I wanted to get it over with. But now I want to see you all the time and I don’t want this band to break up and I really don’t want this tour to end. Derek, say something? I’m drowning here.”

“You think I’m perfect?” he asks, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. 

“Oh shut up,” Stiles laughs. 

“Let’s flush these,” Derek says with finality. He presses the bottle back into Stiles’ palm and circles his fingers around his wrist and gives him a light tug.

Stiles leads the way into the bathroom.

**

Stiles sits on the bathroom counter and tips the open bottle over the toilet. Derek watches his face for signs of struggle, checks his shoulders for tension. His body is supple like a willow branch, his eyes focused on the pills gathering at the lowest point in the bowl, his face comfortably blank.

He tears off the label, balls it up in his hand, tosses the bottle in the trash and flushes in a couple swift movements.

“This is too easy,” Derek mutters. Stiles looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Do you have another bottle somewhere?”

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m kidding. I’m used to you being difficult.”

“I just want you to trust me,” he sighs, sounding and looking tired as he gazes up at him. Derek’s body rocks toward him but he keeps his feet planted. Stiles slides off the counter and steps into Derek’s space. “You can go through the rest of my stuff if you want.”

Derek wraps his arms around him, hugs him tight against his chest. “I trust you,” he mumbles against the side of his head. And he does. 

“Please come to bed with me,” Stiles asks, nuzzling his face against him. Derek nods.

Derek follows Stiles back into the bedroom, observes the long lines of his arms and back and shoulders as he veers toward the wall to flick off the overhead light, traces his silhouette against the warm glow of the bedside lamps, falls into bed with him easily…

Stiles rests his head on his chest and weaves his fingers into Derek’s. And this is a familiar feeling. This intimacy. This sleepy truce that comes after sharing a little more than is comfortable with each other. From straying too deep into each other’s privacy. It’s comfortable and it hurts a little but it’s good… it’d always felt good.

He’d apologize for disturbing the tenuous peace they’d established. He would. He would absolutely apologize for it because Stiles seems so drained. But he’s not sorry. He’s still processing everything that Stiles said but he’s glad he said it. 

“Thank you,” Stiles murmurs. “For staying. Even though… all of that.”

“Of course,” Derek answers, squeezing his fingers. Why wouldn’t he stay? He never wants to leave Stiles again. They’re fully clothed in bed, the bedside lamps are still on, it’s still raining outside. Stiles is warm and solid and real. And he’s safe. And Derek’s here. In Milan, on tour, in bed with him. Derek can think of millions of places he’d want to leave, and this is not one of them.

“I missed you constantly too,” Derek says softly. 

Stiles’ remains silent but shifts his head so look at him.

“Everything felt heavy without you,” Derek continues.

Stiles tightens his grip on his hand.

“I’m happier with you around.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, voice catching in his throat. 

“Yeah.” And then any other words he was planning on saying die on his tongue. 

Stiles laughs at him and presses a loving kiss to his neck. Derek loves him. 

“You said I disappeared,” Stiles says thoughtfully after a long stretch of comfortable, healing quiet.

“Well, what the label wants, the label gets,” Derek says, trying not to cringe against the hurt feelings that resurface.

Stiles sighs. “You know, it’s really easy to blame the label sometimes…”

Derek scoffs. “So you lied?”

“Not entirely. They wanted a little friendly distance. But honestly, what did you expect? You broke up with me, why wouldn’t I have disappeared?”

Derek feels like he’s been doused in ice cold water. “I didn’t mean to break up with you,” he struggles to say. Stiles stiffens against him. “I waited for you to call or text me when things blew over a little. Part of me expected you to drive up and drag me back to LA with you. But instead I never heard from you again…”

Stiles shoves away from Derek and sits up. “What do you mean you didn’t mean to break up with me?”

Derek sits up too and faces him. “I left the band and I didn’t move to LA with you but I still wanted you… But you made it pretty clear that you hated me…”

Stiles’ eyes burn into him. He looks as though he might be angry somewhere deep down, but he’s too tired to show it.

“Why’d you quit exactly?” Stiles asks, surprising him with the slight shift in topic.

“I didn’t want to lie anymore.”

“About what?”

“About us. About me.”

“Why not?”

“It was exhausting. I felt like a coward. I felt like everything we did was a lie. The stress of everything else wasn’t worth it anymore.”

“When did you start feeling that way?”

“I never liked it.”

“I know you didn’t, but why did you quit when you quit? What was it about that last tour? What did I do wrong?” The speed of his voice steadily rises with each word, his pitch is all over the place.

“It wasn’t you.”

“Really?” he asks. “Because it sure felt like it was me.”

Derek lets out a puff of air and tries to explain. “Brunski said—“

“You should have talked to me. You should have told me what he said—“ 

“Why?” Derek cuts in. He feels like Stiles has already filled in the blanks. “So you could just agree with him to my face instead of behind my back?”

“As if I’d agree with anything Brunski said—“

“You did though. You did agree with him. And I know it was just a game for you, I know you were just doing what you had to do, but I didn’t want to deal with it—“

“I had a plan, Derek! I had a plan! What did he say?” His voice is frantic. He gestures wildly with his hands. “Did he say we had to cool it? Did he say we had to shelve the song?”

“He said I had an image to uphold—“

“Fuck the image, Derek! Fuck it! Who cares! Please tell me you haven’t spent the last two years thinking I chose this thing over you. I wouldn’t have ever… if you’d have told me, if you’d have given me a chance, I would have done anything to keep you. Anything.” Derek’s actually shocked by the amount of dismay Stiles is freely showing. He’s surprised at how quickly he went from warm and lovely on his chest to this tightly wound. “I would have fucked Brunski’s plans over right then and there. I would have come out as loudly and publically as possible, I would have been ready for that. I would have kissed you in front of the whole world to make it damn clear to them what was going on if that would have made you happier, if that would have saved us… if I could have kept you, I would have done anything.”

Derek presses his mouth against Stiles’ to get him to stop, to get him to take a breath, to stop the sparkling of angry tears in his eyes. He kisses him because he said the right thing, the thing Derek didn’t even know he needed to hear. And he kisses him for almost crying about it. And he kisses him because he loves him. A lot. So much. And he kisses him because he hadn’t done enough of that in a long time and he wants to catch up. He kisses him because he’s ready to drop the subject and let it go and come back to where he can kiss Stiles all the time. Stiles kisses him back, his hand curling around the back of his neck. 

“You never broke up with me, _fuck_ ,” Stiles curses when he pulls away. He laughs a little. “Dammit, Derek. You quit the fucking band because of Brunski? Because you didn’t talk to me about it? Because… you thought that I wouldn’t have fought for you and then you left the band and I actually didn’t fight for you so you were basically right… but I didn’t know… _fuck_. We could have fixed this bullshit with like two conversations, max.” He laughs again and falls back against the mattress. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek offers, curling his fingers around Stiles’ leg.

“You’re an ass.”

Derek laughs and crawls forward over Stiles’ body. “Say that to my face.”

“You’re an ass,” he repeats, grinning. “And I’m sorry too.”

“For calling me an ass?”

“For… not chasing you. I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

Derek dips his head down and kisses him. Stiles kisses him back and pulls him down on top of him. Derek loves him. Derek kisses him with everything he has, runs his hands up under his shirt to feel every rib, slots his hips against his. Stiles loves him back, Derek’s so sure of it. His hands on Derek’s neck are firm and reassuring, he’s so urgent suddenly. His knee rises to Derek’s side and his pelvis shifts under him and Derek can feel him hardening…

“Fuck,” Stiles curses, shoving Derek off of him and rolling away. He lands on his feet on the side of the bed and paces a little, covering his eyes with one hand while the other is on his hip. He’s smiling though… “I just wanted to talk to you, I wasn’t trying to get in your pants,” Stiles says with a nervous laugh.

“What’d you want to talk about?” Derek asks, his cheeks still flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.

“Anything, I just wanted to hear your voice. And I mean, we’ve been talking… this has been very… productive. Informative…”

“We don’t have to… do anything if you don’t want to. We can keep talking.”

“I want to,” he says authoritatively. “We can talk later.” Derek watches him pull his shirt over his head. He wiggles out of his tight jeans and kicks them across the room and Derek’s on his feet. His hands land on Stiles’ nude sides and he pulls him in and he kisses him and he’s okay with this… Stiles’ pale skin is totally bare and Derek wants to touch all of it. Stiles shoves him away. “Condom,” he says through a smile. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches Derek stalk toward his bag.

Derek tears off his shirt on his way back to him, throws the condoms behind him on the bed and sinks the ground in front of him.

He looks up into his face, into the careful arrangement of his features, and places a gentle kiss on the inside of his knee. Stiles is silent, mouth in a straight line, eyes inquisitive but reserved, chest heaving. Derek takes his hand in his, hoping his touch is as light as warm bath water… He kisses his knuckles, maneuvers his fingers until his hand is open, kisses his palm, kisses his wrist. Stiles’ free hand flutters along Derek’s jaw, slides down his neck, grips his shoulder…

Derek’s other hand traces from Stiles’ ankle up to his knee, along the outside of his thigh. He turns his head and presses his lips against the inside of his thigh and rubs Stiles’ palm against the rough stubble of his cheek. Stiles curls his fingers around Derek’s ear. 

This is vital. Derek looks up into his face again and sees nothing but reverence. Derek’s jumping at this opportunity before it passes him by, before he never gets another chance to be this bare with him again, before he never gets a chance to touch him like this, before they get back to the States and realize they have no idea what to do with each other anymore. But he feels so comfortable here. He imparts as much affection as he can in every little touch in the hopes that Stiles can read it. His mouth trails further up Stiles’ thigh and he widens his legs a little to let him. 

Before Derek can get his mouth on him, because he can taste him, Stiles hunches over to guide Derek onto his knees and into a kiss. Derek bends and flows to his will as if he was built to. His hands smooth over his sides, play across the soft skin stretched over his ribs. Stiles scoots backward across the bed, Derek crawls over him to keep up. 

The first kiss in Manchester had been surprising and honest.

Stiles slides his fingers under the waistband of Derek’s sweatpants and slowly works them down over his hips. Derek settles on top of Stiles carefully, his chest hot against Stiles’ cool skin, his arms bracketing his lithe body against the mattress. The sound of the rain (pounding on the window. sluicing through the gutter, trickling down the side of the building) is so loud that everything else seems muted. Everything else seems languid. Stiles curves a hand around the back of Derek’s now bare thigh, just under his ass, pulls him closer and lets out a breathy sigh against Derek’s mouth. 

Paris had been the culmination of two years lost in a desert, barren and thirsty for his skin.

Derek kicks his sweatpants off and spreads Stiles’ legs with his knee. Stiles is hot and hard against his lower stomach. Derek rests his forehead against Stiles’ and looks into his eyes as they catch their breath. 

Berlin had been sex. A return to form. Alcohol, dark want and a risky setting. Going back to the hotel and fucking through the fog until they fell asleep.

Derek watches as Stiles smiles slowly, genuinely, his eyes warm and open. His hand slips between them to wrap around them both and Derek dips his head to kiss him again. He sucks his bottom lip in between his and moves against him.

Stiles’ spare hand rubs the side of his neck, his fingertips straying into his hairline and it sends shivers through his entire body. Derek pulls away from Stiles’ mouth to press his face against his neck, to breathe in the heat at his throat, to remember how well the bridge of his nose fit under the line of his jaw. He’s at Stiles’ will, pliant and instinctual. He runs his fingers through Derek’s thick hair and turns his head to kiss his temple and his other hand keeps flexing around them and Derek’s lucky he’s not slack-jawed and drooling against him. 

Stiles’ hips jerk involuntarily and a needy moan slips out of him. Derek mouths at his throat as Stiles’ panting gets heavier. He wants to take him and take care of him and watch his face as he’s undone… Derek pulls Stiles’ leg up and hooks his arm underneath the crook of his knee. Stiles moans and writhes at the change. And then Derek rolls onto his back, switching their positions. Stiles settles gingerly against him, his mouth hot and wet against Derek’s jaw.

And this? This is all of it. Surprisng and honest. Hungry and desperate. Satisfying. And it’s more. An even more significant return to form. Stiles pulls back and his eyes are focused on his, his arms framing Derek’s face against the pillow, his lips swollen… and Derek knows he doesn’t want to be touched by anyone else ever again.

**

Stiles traces his fingers over the defined edges of Derek’s muscles, looks down at his parted lips and closed eyes, lets Derek’s big hands move his hips for him because he’s a little beyond that right now… 

Rome.

Derek thrusts up into him and he crumples against his chest with a pleased groan. Derek noses at his hairline, doesn’t stop moving.

Barcelona.

Stiles lifts his head enough to kiss him but ends up watching his face instead. His eyes are barely open, just a sliver of dark and green and long black eyelashes. His lips parted. His Adam’s apple bobbing with every shuddering breath. And Stiles loves him.

Madrid.

Stiles drags his lower lip over Derek’s mouth and runs his thumbs across his high cheekbones and tries to catch his breath. Derek’s fingers dig into his hips as he pulls and pushes him. Stiles is aware of every inch of his skin and thinks of it in terms of its relation to Derek’s… 

And his hands are just big enough and his arms are just long enough and his shoulders are just broad enough and his entire body is just… enough. It’s enough. It’s all Stiles wants. He feels at home with him in between his legs, he feels at ease with him, he feels taken care of, _so_ taken care of, Christ…

Arrival at LAX, November 15th. 

Stiles slides his tongue against Derek’s, his breath hitches in his throat, Derek shudders and moans underneath him. 

Rome. Barcelona. Madrid. And then it’s over. 

Stiles forces himself to straighten his body out, braces his hands against the headboard, rocks back and forth while Derek bucks against him. Stiles has to fight to keep upright. 

Stiles doesn’t want it to be over.

He squeezes his eyes shut and rocks faster as a cry grinds out from behind his gritted teeth. Before he falls against him, he opens his eyes to trace the streaks of white he left across Derek’s stomach… Derek’s buzzing through his own orgasm, trying to keep his eyes open as he gazes up at him. 

Everything’s a little hazy until he feels Derek press a kiss to his forehead. They’re laying on their sides, wrapped up in a sheet, arms tight around each other. 

“You okay?” Derek asks. Stiles just kisses him. Because yeah, right now he’s fine. He’s great. He’s perfect. Derek’s perfect. And the only way he can say all that without breaking his own heart is by kissing him.

So they kiss and they listen to the rain and Derek’s hands are so _soft_ against his waist and his chest and his arms and his neck. Stiles curls his fingers into Derek’s hair and shoves his foot in between his ankles to warm his toes and every second of prolonged contact is going to make Madrid just that much harder. But Derek’s worth it, he really is.

He was worth meeting. He was worth getting to know. He was worth falling in love with. He was worth all the hurting. He was worth the two years of misery. And he was worth doing all that all over again. 

He’ll always be worth it. Every single time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever have those intense as hell nights with friends or ~lovers~ where you're all "DAMN it all came out tonight, didn't it?" Well that's this chapter. And I am so drained now. :D
> 
> Postcards from Italy is by Beirut 
> 
> The Paramore song is When It Rains (har har get it because it's raining this entire chapter).
> 
> And it's not mentioned in here but I listened to Limousine by Brand New at least 400 times while poking at this chapter and I feel like that's worth noting even if just because _wow_ that song tho.
> 
> THE RIDICULOUS OUTPOURING OF AFFECTION FROM YOU GUYS SINCE THE LAST CHAPTER HAS OVERWHELMED ME SO VERY MUCH. Your comments mean a lot a lot a lot to me wow wow wow thank you. D:
> 
> I bit the bullet and made a fandom tumblr so you should all come play with me over [yonder](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/). Ciao!


	20. When Rome's In Ruins, We Are the Lions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on songs and playlists:  
> I decided to throw together an 8tracks playlist of all the songs mentioned in this here fic, which can be found [right here](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!
> 
> And then [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks) went and made a totally perfect 8tracks playlist and you really should [check it out](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

November 9th.  
Milan, Italy.

They wake up to an actual alarm and Derek’s surprised. Stiles lifts his head off Derek’s chest, face scrunched up in displeasure as he slaps around for his phone.

“I thought people just pounded on your door fifteen minutes before you had to be somewhere?” Derek teases once he rolls away and turns it off.

“Not this time, my friend, not this time.” He crawls back to Derek and tucks himself against him. 

They had fallen asleep with the lights on. Stiles’ face is part submerged in the shadow Derek’s body casts, part golden. Derek traces his thumb along Stiles’ knuckles. His skin is warm, his body sleep-soft… Derek turns his head toward him to kiss what he can reach of his forehead. The clock on the bedside table reads four in the morning.

And _then_ someone pounds on his door.

Stiles groans and rolls away. Derek feels cold in his wake. Stiles picks Derek’s sweatpants up on his way to the door and pulls them on while yelling at the knocker. “Okay, okay, okay!”

“Is Derek in here?” Allison asks, frantic on the other side of the door once Stiles answers it. “Because his phone is going straight to voicemail and he’s not answering his door—“

“Yeah,” Stiles says, opening the door a little further so she can see him. She looks relieved when he waves at her. 

“Bus in thirty,” she says more calmly. “And we’ll be debriefing, so… there’ll be coffee waiting, don’t waste your time on that. Big press day.”

Stiles nods as she talks and then stops suddenly. “Wait, do you give everyone else more time than me? Thirty minutes?”

She shoots him a devious grin. “See you in thirty!” 

Stiles grumbles as he closes the door and heads back toward the bed.

“I did that to them,” he says softly, propping his knee against the mattress beside Derek. Derek wraps a hand around the back of his thigh. The fabric under his palm is soft and worn. 

“Did what?” Derek asks, looking up at him. Stiles shoves the hair away from Derek’s forehead and smiles down at him sadly.

“The whole nervous about hotel rooms thing. Wondering where you were, freaking out about it… I did that to them.”

Derek connects the dots. He squeezes his leg to let him know so he doesn’t have to continue if he doesn’t want to. Stiles tugs his hair affectionately and smiles.

“Shower?” he asks, slowly pulling away from him.

And of course he sings in the shower. Derek laughs and tries to cover his mouth. It’s four in the goddamn morning. Stiles shoves his hand away and surges forward to kiss him. 

“You don’t like my singing?” Stiles mumbles against his lips, his hands in Derek’s wet hair.

“I just don’t know that our neighbors want to hear you singing Hall & Oates this early in the morning,” Derek mumbles back, sliding his hands through the suds falling down Stiles’ sides.

“Why? Because… what I got they want and it might be hard to handle? Like the flame that burns the candle?” Derek can sense that he’s about to go right back to singing so he pulls him closer and kisses him. Stiles leans against him, barely containing a smile as he kisses him back. When he pulls away, he smirks and turns back toward the stream of water. 

“Honey, you are a rock upon which I stand,” he starts singing at a much more acceptable volume. His voice is low and smooth as honey, encased in steam. Derek wraps his arms around him from behind and inhales the fresh scent of soap as he keeps going. Stiles squeezes out some shampoo and clumsily reaches behind him and pats some onto the top of Derek’s head. “Green eyes, yeah the spotlight shines upon you,” he sings, tapping Derek’s head with each syllable before letting his arms drop.

Derek remembers the first time he heard him sing. Really sing, not just taunt Mr. Harris by singing “Dude Looks Like a Lady” from just around the corner in the hallways. Derek smiles against the back of his neck at that memory too, though. But really he’s got an unseasonably warm winter afternoon stuck in his head. They had snuck out at lunch to drive Laura’s convertible (taken without her knowledge) through the Preserve. Stiles sat beside him with his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, as he sang all the words to every song that came up on shuffle… 

Stiles mumbles through a few more lyrics he doesn’t quite know and laughs. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he says, twisting in Derek’s arms.

“Grand Theft Autumn,” Derek says, his tongue feeling too thick for his mouth when Stiles starts properly massaging the shampoo into his scalp. 

“Is that a request?” he asks, not taking his eyes off his hair.

“No. That’s the first thing I ever heard you actually sing.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, locking eyes with him.

“We’d been hanging out for a couple months. I stole Laura’s car—“

“The convertible!”

“Mhmm,” Derek murmurs. “And we just drove around listening to music.”

“Because the weather was nice. I remember.”

Derek nods. Stiles grins at him and pulls him under the stream of water to rinse.

“Close your eyes,” he commands softly. “And how did I sound?” Stiles asks. 

Derek obeys without thinking about it and answers him. “Beautiful.”

Stiles “hmm”s and he can hear a smile in it. He rubs his hands through Derek’s hair, behind his ears, and then moves to his face. Stiles’ fingers ghost over his eyelids and across his cheekbones and nose and down the sides of his face and suddenly there’s lips on his. 

**

Stiles slips back into Derek’s sweatpants without even bothering to ask. He can’t stop yawning as he pulls a sweater over his bare chest and starts shoving things into his bag. If his estimations are correct, they got about two hours of sleep. Give or take. 

He’s beyond tired. His eyes feel dry and his head feels heavy. Derek hooks his arm around Stiles’ waist to pull him toward the door and he feels a little energy surge through him.

“How are we going to act?” Derek asks in the elevator.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

Because it’s unchartered territory all over again. Because what are they supposed to do really? Stiles wants to grab his hand and kiss him. He wants to be able to grab him by the hips to pull him away and off into dark corners while the band laughs at them. He wants Derek’s hands on him as much as possible. A light touch to his lower back in passing, holding his waist to keep him steady, slapping his ass to surprise him… 

Like it used to be. He wants it to be like it used to be but he knows it’s not that easy. And before wasn’t even perfect anyway. Before, he still couldn’t kiss him in public without triple checking their surroundings. He couldn’t kiss him on the cheek. He couldn’t even hug him for too long. He wasn’t even technically supposed to touch him at all when there were cameras around.

Derek wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him closer. 

“We’ll play it by ear,” he whispers against the side of his face and kisses his cheek.

Stiles takes a deep and centering breath. He turns his head toward him and laughs a little on the exhale. “Okay.”

The elevator dings to let them know they’ve reached the lobby.

“You look good in my clothes,” Derek says against his cheek as the elevator settles. His hand slips to grab his ass for a second and then he shoves Stiles forward when the doors open. There’s a cheeky grin on his face when Stiles turns around to look at him. 

**

They’re about half an hour into their journey to Rome by the time everyone is settled enough to talk. Allison runs through both of their schedules and sends Royales off to get a few more hours of sleep. Once the front lounge is clear, Smokes looks expectantly at Allison.

“Alright, so Isaac,” Allison sighs after setting down her iPad on the kitchenette’s table. “The official statement from Isaac is that he left to pursue his own artistic endeavors.” She takes a sip of coffee and looks at them all over the top of her reading glasses. “You all remain good friends. You all cherish your time spent together. If they ask you if you were surprised by his departure, you are advised to answer that he’d discussed this possibility with you guys when he chose not to join us for Europe.” Allison looks as though the words leave a sour taste in her mouth. “If you’re asked about moving forward, say that you’ll be taking time to refocus the band once you get back to the States but that you’re excited to see the future of Smokes and you’re proud of Isaac for making such a bold decision. You are excited to see his future projects thrive. Any questions?”

“Why did he really leave?” Scott asks.

“I like to imagine that he was just abandoning a sinking ship like any sensible person would.” Derek feels the collective cringe that surges through Stiles, Lydia and Scott at her brash delivery.

“Oh,” Scott says sadly.

She softens a little. “He said it was time for him to move on.”

“How’d it get out?” Lydia asks.

Allison shrugs. “I’m still working on that.”

It seems like the natural place for Stiles to ask a question, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Do you want me to just keep quiet?” Derek asks when Allison’s eyes settle on Stiles expectantly.

“Oh. Well, sure. These three can field all the questions about Isaac. I’ve put a block on certain things, though. No one is supposed to ask you if you’re going to be permanently replacing him, but if they do…” 

He can see on her face that there isn’t really a good answer to that. If he says no, it sounds like he’s screwing the band over or like the band is headed toward calling it quits. If he says yes, that gives a little too much false hope… 

“I’ll just say that I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of playing with them again sometime, but it’s all up in the air.”

She looks nervous about it but nods anyway. “Sure.” There’s another long pause, eyes turned toward Stiles, who is busy inspecting his hands…

“And um,” Allison starts against after awhile, looking down at the ground. “I know you guys don’t really want to talk about this, but… we really need to talk about your contracts. Especially now.”

Dead silence. Derek shifts uncomfortably.

“You all need to decide,” Allison continues. She hasn’t lifted her eyes from the floor. She lets a few seconds of silence hang there before she continues. “You need to set aside your exhaustion and your nerves and your fears and everything and you need to decide. You can take a break or you can break up, it’s up to you guys. But you need to tell me either way. The full terms of your contract will be met as of Barcelona and after that… you have options that I need you to think about.”

Derek looks at the rest of them. Stiles is staring at a spot on the ground, the string of his hoodie in his mouth. Scott has his head back against the wall and he’s staring at the ceiling. Lydia’s face is turned away from them and toward the bunks.

“Isaac is giving us the perfect excuse for a break. No one expects you to jump right back into the studio right away. So you can take a break, figure out the bassist thing…” She flicks her eyes toward Derek without really meaning to and forces herself to look at the floor. “In that case you could just extend your current contract. Or you could even use that break to shop around for another label. We have plenty of interested parties. Just so you know… I just need you guys to give me some sort of sign as to what you want.” 

They’re still not talking. Derek looks anywhere but at any of them. When she starts talking again, she sounds anxious. “You guys know I will do anything in my power for you. I can get you pretty much whatever you want. I just need to know what you want.”

Derek really wishes he wasn’t here for this…

“It’ll be advantageous of you all to protect your intellectual property and your legal rights and your careers by actually giving a fuck,” Allison says, her voice shaking with rage. Derek looks back up at her in surprise and she’s actually crying. The rest of them don’t even look.

Derek wants to get up and hug her or something. He wants to say something. He wants to tell her he’ll lead the discussion so she can go get some sleep, anything. But she wipes her face with both hands and takes a deep breath.

“I’m with Royales today, you won’t see me until later,” she says, her voice stiff and emotionless. “Boyd can answer any of your questions.”

She sets her nearly empty coffee cup in the sink and heads to her bunk without another word. 

Scott leaves first. He stands like he’s in pain and he squeezes Lydia’s shoulder before walking slowly toward the bunks. 

Stiles is frozen until Lydia lets out a shuddery breath. He reaches his arm out to her and puts his hand in between her shoulder blades. Derek has never felt more helpless. He’d promised Allison that he’d do something about this band and he knows she didn’t take him seriously but…

“You guys really need to handle it, she’s right,” he says softly. Not helpful, Derek. 

“I know,” Lydia says with a sniff. “I’m just tired, sorry… I’m going to bed…” She sounds put together in that beautiful way only Lydia Martin can pull off when she’s falling apart.

When she leaves, it’s just Derek and Stiles.

“I’m so tired,” Stiles admits, voice gravelly as he rubs his face. 

“Get some sleep.”

“I mean in general, I am so… so tired.” He slumps down into the couch and closes his eyes.

“Of what?” Derek prompts, reaching for Stiles’ hand.

“All of it.” He weaves his fingers with Derek’s and holds their hands against his thigh. 

“Sounds like you need a break.”

Stiles laughs wryly. “I guess.”

“So take one.”

“And what if we never come back from it?”

“Well, I’m back aren’t I?” Derek asks, voice barely above a whisper. Stiles opens his eyes and turns his head slightly to look at him. “It’s hard to stay away from this,” Derek says as he lifts Stiles’ hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. 

He smiles a little with gentle, open affection smoothing his features and Derek basks in his gaze. Derek can’t imagine a scenario in which he never came back to this. To Stiles. To Scott and Lydia and Allison. To touring. To music. All of it. Stiles ducks forward without letting go of Derek’s hand and kisses him sweetly. 

Derek supposes this could be considered playing it by ear. 

“Alright, I need sleep. Like real sleep,” Stiles confesses, playfully pushing Derek away as he stands. 

Derek murmurs in agreement and gets up too. Stiles yawns as he shuffles toward the bunks. Derek takes a second to hunt down the stray coffee mugs in the front lounge and fuss over Allison’s hastily abandoned things on the table. When he heads in himself, Stiles is hanging listlessly from his top bunk.

“So much… physical… effort, I can’t,” Stiles whispers dramatically. 

Derek rolls his eyes as he gestures toward his own bunk. Stiles drops back to the floor with a satisfied smirk and crawls in before him. 

**

November 9th.  
Rome, Italy.

The interviews are all the same. All day, it’s the same questions and the same answers. They have one accompanying photo shoot where they’re all dressed in fine suits and another where they’re decked out in leather jackets and tight jeans, but it’s all the same shit either way. Vogue Italia asks about their style icons. A local music magazine asks about their rock idols. A radio station asks about their favorite song of the moment.

Everyone gives them sympathetic smiles when they talk about Isaac, and they all seem pleased with the answers. They obey their orders not to ask if Derek’s set to replace Isaac but still give him sly looks when they ask what they’re going to do next. Stiles had shut down everything else just to sparkle for them, to give the people someone to trust. Scott stays affable through it all, even ends up wooing the shit out of the Vogue Italia reporter with some basic Italian flirtations. Lydia keeps fairly quiet, as usual, but exudes calm confidence the entire day. And Derek… well, Derek smiles and he can see how it makes every interviewer and photographer alike blush just a little. Stiles finds himself smiling smugly when Derek answers things in particularly charming fashion. It’s the most interesting part of the day.

Afterward, they go back to the suite to wait for Royales and Allison to return. Scott and Lydia argue playfully over which room they want while Stiles and Derek lay claim to the couch. Lydia’s making a case for why she should be the one with the better view when Scott stomps back out to the living room. Lydia “hey!”s and follows. She’s got a mischievous but well-meaning air about her.

“Stiles and Derek are going to decide,” he declares. He’s fighting down a smile. 

“Stiles and Derek don’t care about this,” Stiles drawls.

“Okay but in Paris, I was the one who just had a view of another building. Lydia, however, had the room with the fireplace _and_ the view. So I think this time—“

“Just share the nice room. Someone has to share anyway,” Stiles cuts in. Lydia and Scott exchange amused looks before staring down at Stiles and Derek. “What?”

“You two are sharing, aren’t you?” Lydia asks innocently.

Derek turns to hide a laugh against his shoulder. Stiles glowers at them until Scott dives onto the couch in between them. “C’mon,” Scott says. “We talked about this.”

“Everyone knows. Literally everyone on this tour is aware that you two are…” Lydia trails off and makes a flailing gesture with one hand that Stiles is to assume signifies “fucking.”

“What do you mean everyone on this tour…?” Stiles asks, indignant. 

“Duke and Jackson’s room was next to yours in Berlin,” Lydia says with a saccharine smile. “The roadies talk.”

Stiles gapes at her. 

“So you two are sharing,” Lydia says authoritatively. “And we still need to figure this out,” she adds, pointing between her and Scott.

“Scott gets the nice room,” Stiles declares. Derek nods. Lydia pouts. Scott punches the air in victory.

Lydia’s over it as soon as she sinks into the arm chair and kicks off her shoes. She furrows her brow and Stiles can feel her observing him.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“Was it London?” she asks.

“Was what London?”

“When you two started… you know.”

“No,” Derek answers. 

“Amsterdam?” Scott asks.

“No!” 

“Then what happened in Amsterdam?” Scott asks. 

“Nothing,” Stiles hisses.

“So when was it?” Lydia asks. 

“Paris,” Derek answers, surprising Stiles.

“Really?” she asks, shocked. “It took you guys that long?” She narrows her eyes at them. “That’s so cliché.”

“We kissed in Manchester,” Stiles provides, surprising himself this time. 

“Aw,” Lydia teases. 

And then they all leave it at that. Lydia turns on the TV and Stiles falls asleep against the arm of the couch until Allison gets back and herds them off to dinner with everyone else.

**

After dinner, the sun is starting to set. Golden light glints off of every surface in Rome. A damp chill settled into their bones, but they soldier on into the dusk anyway. Stiles was a warm, constant presence by his side as they walked through plazas and took in the sights. Erica and Scott provided constant commentary as they went – Erica pointed out famous theaters and talked about her favorite operas and composers while Scott provided historical color. 

Stiles has an easy smile on every time Derek glances over at him. Lydia walks in between Danny and Ethan, her arms hooked in theirs, as she grills them about their fledgling relationship. Derek can hear Jackson, Boyd, Danny and the techs’ voices bouncing through the plaza behind them. 

Allison walks quietly alongside Derek, her hands in her pockets, her eyes sliding between all of them. Derek veers closer to her and nudges her with his elbow. She gives him a sleepy little smile.

“You okay?” Derek asks, pitching his voice low.

She nods. “Just tired.” 

Exhaustion is the underlying current for all of them. Royales and the roadies opt to continue their exploration of the city while Smokes drags their feet back to the suite. Allison sets up camp at the small dining table, Stiles holds up a peace sign as he heads straight for their room, and the rest of them fall onto the couch.

It doesn’t take long for Lydia to fall asleep with her phone still in her hand and her head lolling against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek can hear the distant, tinny sound of music playing through Allison’s headphones and the soft clicking of her keyboard. Lydia’s breath is deep and calming. Derek’s about to fall asleep too when Scott turns in his seat to look at him over Lydia’s head.

“I’m sorry for what I said the other night… about getting Stiles back from you, or whatever,” he says. 

“It’s okay,” Derek answers slowly.

“I worry about him a lot,” Scott confesses.

“I know,” Derek says with a smile. “You always have.”

“He’s my best friend.” Scott shrugs. 

Derek nods.

They sit in contemplative silence for awhile until Derek clears his throat.

“Are you two going to be okay?” Derek asks.

Scott smiles a lopsided smile at the question. “I think we’re going to make it.”

“Good,” Derek says. Derek remembers when he first talked to Scott back on the first day of their freshmen English class. It’d been about two years before Derek would speak to Stiles, but he learned two things about Scott McCall from that awkward in-class ice breaker: 1. Scott McCall seemed like a good guy, and 2. Scott McCall’s best friend was Stiles Stilinski. 

“He beat the shit out of me once,” Scott says softly. “We were kids. His mom had been sick and I think he knew she was going to die, but uh… I don’t know, we were playing lacrosse in my yard and I tripped him and he lost it. When he stopped hitting me, I just… hugged him. I was ten, I’ve known him for almost twenty years now and I understood him better when I was ten than I have lately.”

Derek lets the quiet buzz around them, not wanting to disrupt his thoughts…

“When his mom died, I lost him for a year. I mean… we still spent a lot of time together and everything, but he wasn’t himself. When he’s hurting, he either loses his shit or he disappears. And it looks really selfish and it feels like hell because all I want is for him to be okay and… I found him. I was the one who found him. And I have never been able to shake that image of him just… Since then, I haven’t known how to help him. And I was starting to think that he hated me because of that...”

Derek shakes his head. “He could never hate you.”

“I was really terrible to him sometimes.”

“He was probably terrible too,” Derek says with a shrug.

Scott laughs a little. “Still…”

“Hey, it’s easy to hurt the people you care about.”

Scott nods thoughtfully. “You’d know,” he teases. 

“Ouch,” Derek laughs. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Scott adds to soften the blow. 

“Yeah, me too.”

Scott slips Lydia’s phone out of her hand and sets it on the coffee table in the ensuing silence. “Why’d you guys hide it?” Scott asks, trying to sound conversational.

“There wasn’t anything to hide or talk about. We’ve just uh… hooked up a couple times.”

He gives him a severe look. “Don’t lead him on,” he warns.

Derek’s eyebrows rise. “I’m not. It’s just… new.”

Scott’s eyes narrow as he reads him. And then his face softens. “He loves you, you know?” Scott says.

Derek’s mouth goes dry. 

“You still love him too, don’t you?” he asks after a pause.

Derek’s chest aches. He tries not to picture him asleep in the next room. He tries not to look forward to slipping into bed next to him in the near future.

“Yeah,” Derek breathes.

Scott laughs softly. “Cool. You guys are uh… were good together. So…”

“So?” Derek prompts.

“So uh… obligatory “if you hurt my best friend again, you won’t walk out of it alive this time” threat?”

“Noted,” Derek laughs. “And what if he hurts me?”

Scott grins. “I’ll rough him up.”

**

November, 2009.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

“Wow,” Stiles breathed when Derek stalked into the clearing with his best scowl on. “You actually came.”

He stopped a few feet away and Stiles couldn’t stop looking at him and the way he stood out against the field of verdant greens and muddy browns that made up the forest. He was a spot of dark – dark hair, dark circles under his eyes, dark jeans, dark jacket – in the airy clearing. Stiles hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, and not for lack of trying. Derek had gone underground.

“I told you I would,” he said. There was a rigid set to his shoulders. 

“That was before…”

He nodded tersely. 

“And yet you’re still here.”

He rolled his eyes and nodded again.

Stiles decided to let it go. He turned around to start walking and checked over his shoulder to see if Derek was following. He was.

They picked their way through a barely visible footpath through the trees without saying anything. Stiles could see his breath fogging up the air in front of his face and could feel his fingers going stiff with cold even in his pockets. The further they walked into the forest, the guiltier Stiles’ felt.

“I’m sorry you’re mad at me,” he said suddenly. Derek’s shuffling footsteps stopped abruptly behind him. Stiles turned to look.

“You’re sorry that I’m mad at you?” he repeated.

Okay, yeah, that was a terrible apology. 

“How about you’re sorry that you dug through your father’s police files to answer a question I didn’t want you to have the answer to?” And that was the longest sentence Derek had put together in Stiles’ presence probably ever. Stiles’ stomach sank.

“Yeah…” And he was sorry, he really was. 

“How about you try to explain yourself, huh? Why was it so important to know? Why did it matter? Why couldn’t you have left it alone?”

“I… wanted to understand,” Stiles confessed. 

“All you needed to know was that he died, the rest of it wasn’t your business.”

Stiles didn’t have a response to that. He was right. Stiles stayed quiet, let the birds and the wind and the creaking of tree branches answer for him.

“How’d your mother die?” Derek asked after awhile of intense staring.

Stiles tore his eyes away from Derek to look back toward the path they were headed down. His eyes burned with the threat of tears. 

“I think I deserve an answer,” Derek asserted. And he had a point. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“What did you think was going to happen?”

Stiles sniffed and rubbed his sleeve across his eyes before looking back at him. “I wanted to understand you better. I wanted to know how to talk to you.”

“You talk to me just fine.”

“I just… I lost her and the only person who really understood me was Scott. And I don’t know if you have anyone like that… I wanted…” His argument faltered on his tongue and he shook his head. It wasn’t supposed to be about what he wanted, but he somehow felt entitled to wanting better for Derek. He still hardly knew him, but he cared about him. “I’m sorry.”

“How did your mother die?” Derek asked again, a little gentler this time.

Stiles swallowed and closed his eyes and focused on his breath. He focused on keeping it together. He concentrated on keeping his voice level. It’d been awhile ago, but it still felt fresh. For Derek, it had only been a couple months. He couldn’t even remember what life was like a couple months after his mother died, all he saw was static fuzz every time he tried to. When he opened his mouth to speak, Derek’s hand wrapped around his upper arm. 

“I’m going to give you the grace you didn’t give me,” he said, sadly, reluctantly… “And I’m not going to force an answer out of you. And I’m not going to dig it up. And I’m not going to ask anyone else.” And if that wasn’t so goddamn respectable…

“Frontotemporal dementia.” 

Derek raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Stiles didn’t miss the confusion on his face.

“I owed you,” Stiles explained. “Grace or not, that’s the fairest I can get.”

“What does that mean? Frontotemporal dementia?”

“She got sick. And she died.” Stiles felt himself clamming up. 

Derek just nodded. “I’m sorry.” He let go of Stiles’ bicep and ducked his head.

They started walking again, and the quiet between them this time was sorrowful. Stiles breathed through the hurt of it. He was thankful he didn’t have to go through the gritty details of his mother’s slow deterioration, he didn’t want Derek to look at him like a victim and he didn’t want him imagining how it had been. 

Derek hadn’t wanted him to know… and he suddenly understood why.

Because now the thing that hurt him the most was buried in the mind of another person. Another reminder that it was real and that it had happened. Another sympathetic soul with no answers or solutions. Another person spinning tales in their head about what happened and what it must have been like and how it must have hurt. And it did hurt. It really hurt. 

Derek must have felt so exposed. He’d tried so hard to protect himself and build himself a shelter. He shunned all his friends. He gave up on his former life. He shut out his family. And he chose them. He chose Stiles and Scott and Lydia rather than be totally alone and Stiles had really fucked that up. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t think.”

“It’s okay.”

“I didn’t tell anyone else,” Stiles assured him. If he could minimize the damage…

“Thank you,” Derek said and he sounded authentic. 

I didn’t mean to break your trust, I still want you to feel safe with us, I will never ever pry where I’m not wanted again… he wanted to say, but he let the quiet fall back over them. 

A few more minutes passed by before they got to the clearing with the giant tree trunk. “Here it is,” Stiles announced. He sat on it and stretched until his hand fell on the initials carved near the center of its many rings. JS + CS. He smiled as he ran his fingers over the familiar curve of the C and felt comfort spread through him.

Derek sat on the edge of the trunk, turned toward Stiles with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired and worn, like usual, but his eyes were the clearest and lightest shade of green Stiles had ever seen. Stiles had never noticed that before. He gave Derek a small smile before turning his attention back to his parents’ initials.

“I’ve never been in love, or whatever, but… I believe in it,” Stiles said to him, shifting to sit next to Derek.

“Yeah, same,” Derek answered, staring down at the leaves at his feet.

Stiles swung his backpack off of his back and started digging through it. “I blame my parents,” he muttered. He closed his hand around a small tin box and tossed his bag behind him.

Derek smiled a little. “Me too.” 

Stiles murmured contently at that as he opened the box and dug a lighter out of his pocket. Derek cast a nervous glance over at him. “You really don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Stiles told him. “I don’t even have to if it makes you uncomfortable.” He held the joint hesitantly in between his fingers, lighter poised but unlit. It was just a ritual. When things were getting loud and heavy, this was what Stiles did. Scott usually came with him, and so did Lydia every once in awhile. But this time it felt important to bring Derek.

Derek shrugged. “Go for it.”

Stiles laid back and took a couple hits, letting the smoke seep out of his mouth and billow over his head. He delighted in the way his muscles seemed to soften under his skin and his head started to float.

“Want some?” Stiles asked, smoke thick in his throat.

“I’ve never inhaled anything on purpose in my life,” Derek laughed nervously.

Stiles sat up. “It’s as easy as breathing,” he told him. “Here.” He took a deep hit and held the smoke in his mouth. Derek quirked an eyebrow at him. Stiles leaned closer to him and tapped his own chin to get Derek to open his mouth. Stiles touched the back of his head as he blew into his mouth. Derek’s lip accidentally grazed his but neither of them commented on it. 

“How was that?” Stiles asked after pulling away.

“Weirdly intimate,” Derek said, his voice taking on a warmer quality.

“Don’t make it weird, Hale,” Stiles teased.

Derek rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back to stare up at the circle of blue sky overhead. Stiles joined him and smirked when Derek held his hand out for the joint. They stayed like that for awhile, watching clouds skitter across their field of vision. Derek was mellowed out after a few hits, so Stiles put the rest away. 

“He hardly ever drank. And he never drove when he did but…” Derek started to say, but his voice fell off immediately. Stiles reached out and closed his hand over Derek’s. And that was it. Stiles didn’t turn his face toward him to see if he was crying, he just knew that he was. They squeezed each other’s hands and that was it. Stiles was never going to let Derek go.

**

November 10th.  
Rome, Italy.

Stiles had fallen asleep instantly the night before but woke up with Derek’s arms around his waist and his head on his chest. The whole crew ate breakfast in their suite and lazed around until they had to go to the venue. Stiles, Derek and Scott are throwing around the Nerf football they stole back from Allison when she walks into the green room with a serious expression.

Allison can’t school her face to hide how wrecked she feels after she pulls them into a conference room to talk. It makes Stiles crawl in his skin. He wants to make a stupid joke to break the tension, he wants her to gather her wits and smile her self-assured smile and he wants her to say she can fix it, whatever it may be.

“It was the label,” she says finally, not looking any of them in the eye. “Someone at the label told the press Isaac was quitting the band.”

“And that person is now fired?” Lydia asks, anger rising in her voice.

Allison shakes her head. “No. It was someone higher up. It was intentional. That’s why it caught me by surprise, I would have been able to… I would have been able to stop it. But no, it came from above me.”

Stiles feels a familiar sliminess about it. 

“They’re forcing our hand,” Stiles says. Allison looks up at him and nods once.

“What? To get us to sign again?” Scott asks. Allison nods again.

“They figured you’d want to stop the break up rumors. They figured I’d advise you that the best way to do that would be to sign. They figured something desperate would finally push you back into negotiations. They didn’t want to wait until you were done with the tour because they knew you’d be in constant interviews and that the questions would keep coming up.”

“They can’t just manipulate us like that and expect us to sign with them again,” Scott argues. 

She shrugs. “It’s worked for them before.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asks.

Allison shakes her head and finally sits down, her shoulders slumped. “I just know that they’ve played you guys before.”

“How?” Lydia asks.

Her eyes flick up to Derek and then to Stiles. Allison lets out a shuddery, humorless laugh. “The label put pressure on Derek and Stiles until Derek quit… They played you guys like fucking fiddles and you never even thought to compare notes or come talk to me.” 

Stiles grips the edge of the table with every ounce of strength he can muster, holding on as each wave of regret threatens to sweep him out of the room. All it would have taken was one conversation…

“God, they got so much free press from your departure, Derek. And don’t get me wrong, they didn’t want you to leave. But they knew that if you did leave it wouldn’t hurt the band’s popularity. It was such a risk but they were right. They’re right because they’re… manipulative evil masterminds, you get that, right? You see that?” 

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Stiles has to keep reminding himself to breathe.

“Brunski knew exactly how to talk to both of you. He knew Stiles would agree to anything to get him to shut up. He knew you would psych yourself out. He knew that if he played his cards right, if he laid it out as simply and sensibly as possible, you two wouldn’t even feel the need to talk about it on your own. He _knew_ that.” 

Derek leans back in his chair, his body going slack, his eyes going distant. Lydia’s hand covers Stiles’, her fingers burrowing underneath his vice-like grip on the table.

“I don’t think he thought you’d leave the band, though. He probably just thought that you guys would behave according to decorum and perfectly follow that little formula of theirs. He figured you guys would behave enough to meet the terms of your contract and be wildly, impossibly famous by the time your contract was up and that you would of course keep working with them. But you leaving _still worked_ for them. They still got what they wanted. They wanted Stiles to be better behaved, at least as far as the public knew, and they got free buzz from it. Why do you think I haven’t been pushing you guys to extend? That’s the easiest thing in the world, even for a band headed toward hiatus. You guys have enough playing power, it would have been so simple. And now this whole Isaac thing. If it wasn’t clear before, it is now: they’re self-serving assholes and they only care about you as long as you’re making them money. And you are. A lot of money, actually. Fuck.”

She’s rubbing her temples, eyes closed. Stiles lets Lydia pry his hand off the table, grips her hand back. Stiles turns to look at Derek and sees that Scott’s hand is on his shoulder. He focuses his breathing and focuses on the room… That fluorescent buzz. The shiny conference room table. Light glaring off the white walls. Lydia’s hand hot and sweaty in his, Allison bent over herself in stress, Scott comforting Derek…

“After the contract expires, we’re done with them,” Stiles says. 

Allison nods. “Then we’ll need to go into deliberations about ownership and distribution rights. It’s going to be a mess. At least you’ve met the terms so you won’t owe them anything… We can talk about this back in LA, I just… wanted to brief you all.” She starts to stand and Stiles can see heartbreak on her face.

“Our legal team is strong, but I don’t know if they’re stronger than the label’s. But I’ll do anything to make sure you get out of this as unscathed as possible,” she says, gathering her things. 

“Allison?” Scott asks, voice soft.

And then she cracks. She covers her face with her arm but Stiles knows she’s crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I’m just… so exhausted. And this is just a lot. And I’m really sorry for all of this. And I’ve been trying to get you all to talk about this for months and you haven’t wanted to. None of you.” She sniffs and pulls her arm away. She steels herself, straightens her posture. When she starts talking again, her voice is stern and steady. “But I want you to talk about this. You guys… mean so much to me. And to your fans. And to Erica and the twins. And to the roadies. And to all the bands you’ve worked with or toured with. No one wants this. I don’t want this. My father doesn’t want this. You’ve bounced back from worse than this, even before you were signed. I know that. You’re all survivors and fighters and you can’t… you can’t let your shitty label and your miscommunications and fatigue put an end to this.”

They’re all silent. They don’t want to look at each other. They don’t know what they’ll find if they do. But Lydia’s hand is still in his and his other has landed on Derek’s knee under the table…

“I’ve been in the audience since Cologne… and you guys are incredible… So I’m going to come right out and ask you this, just once: Please don’t quit.”

“Since Cologne, huh?” Lydia asks, sounding smug.

“I’d forgotten what it was like to be out there,” she admits with a reluctant smile. “I had been talking with a label, off the record, about you guys. And a lot of the major labels are ready and willing to snatch you up, but this label… I laid out a lot of things about you guys for every interested party, and this little label is the only one I think I would trust with you… I told them I didn’t want to have to force Stiles to hide, I didn’t want the stupid teen magazine image to follow you, I want you to have more freedom. I told them that you guys have drive and talent and passion and… and that you make great connections with others and have an eye for scouting talent and that you’ve been building a family since you started, other bands… roadies… producers… journalists, even. And that’s so valuable… I just… You guys have a very strong option out there. I want you to know that. So think about it, for me.”

Lydia’s hand slips out of Stiles’ so she can clasp her own hands together, elbows resting on the table top, as if in deep personal prayer. Stiles looks toward Scott and sees a similar inwardly drawn expression.

“What’s the option?” Derek asks. “What’s the label?”

“Vulpine Lupine Records, they’re small and just starting up. They need a good flagship band. You guys could be that. Kira, the founder, is a family friend of ours and my dad’s an investor. Her mother is an exec at Columbia and has a lot of great connections and… She’s young but she’s smart and has a lot of great ideas.”

No one says anything. Stiles takes in the information and feels it out. It feels like a risk. But he’s never doubted Allison before, he’s never had a reason to… 

Allison lets out a rattling sigh and finishes shoving her things into her laptop bag. “I don’t want my time with you guys to be over, but if that’s the case… you have to… you guys have to do what’s best for you. And I’m going to love you all forever regardless… but I don’t… this isn’t… you don’t find bands like this very often.” She gives them a watery smile and slings the bag over her shoulder. “Stiles, you should probably go rehearse with Erica.” She turns on her heel and heads to the door. 

“Where are they based, Ally?” Stiles asks.

“San Francisco,” she says in a defeated tone, not stopping or turning to look. The door clicks shut behind her.

**

Stiles bounces from foot to foot, nothing but pure energy clogging up his veins and head. He can’t stop thinking about what Allison had to say. He can’t stop thinking about his band. He can’t stop moving. Erica sits at her keyboard and stares at him with an eyebrow raised.

“You’re exhausting me,” she says.

“I just… This sounds great, but can we do something else just for a little?”

“Sure, like what?”

Stiles grins at her and runs to go grab everyone else. Ten minutes later finds them assembled haphazardly around the unfinished stage. Lydia’s set faces Aiden’s. Scott and Derek and Ethan try to keep their wires from getting tangled. Stiles grins at Erica and she laughs at him. 

“So what’s up?” Scott asks, looking around the stage with curiosity. 

“Just trying something out.”

And Stiles still has that scene (Lydia and Aiden smiling smugly as they try to one-up each other’s stick work, Scott and Derek laughing at each other when they messed up, Ethan harassing Erica at her piano…) playing in his head as they all take the stage together later that night. He grins out at the audience as their cheering hits a totally unprecedented pitch when the lights come back up. 

“Erica and I have been feeling a little lonely,” he tells them. “So we wanted to bring our best friends out with us this time around.”

He turns away from the mic to watch Lydia wave from up on her drum platform. She points at Aiden and shakes her fist at him. He waves a stick back at her. Scott, Ethan and Derek have their arms around each other’s shoulders for a second before reaching for their guitars.

It feels right. 

He turns back to the mic. “I know we usually slow it down here, get a little sexy, but uh… I don’t know, we’re nearing the end of our tour and these are my people and we just wanted to have a good time.” Lydia starts playing the opening drums they worked out, something longer and more intricate than the original. Aiden, armed with nothing but a snare, starts layering in his own thing. Scott starts the guitar line and Stiles smirks as he says, “This is “Feeling This” by Blink-182.”

And then Erica kicks in with the opening verse.

By the time they get to the chorus Erica, Stiles, Scott and Derek are all singing with the audience as their enthusiastic background singers. When Stiles isn’t singing, he turns to whoever is to watch them as the stage lights sparkle in their eyes. 

Stiles is caught up in the euphoria of it all. He can feel Derek’s bass line thrumming in him, he can feel the drums echoing in his stomach. He feels his voice melt with theirs into something warm that pools in his chest. The energy of these six other people have the stage blazing with light and sound. 

And this is why he does what he does. The melodic, singular voice of the audience singing along is why he does this. The way Derek and Scott hold their arms out toward each other in praise whenever they get the chance is why he does this. Lydia’s infectious joy from behind her set is why he does this. 

They’re why he does this.

The instruments abruptly drop out and they sing through the a cappella round at the end to the deafening roar of their crowd. 

Stiles’ eyes burn with sweat as they all converge to hug Royales and send them off the stage. Stiles heads back to the mic while the roadies clear the extra gear.

“Rome, you sound beautiful tonight, good job on that last one,” Stiles says. And then he catches sight of Allison behind the barricade, her shoulders shaking with her hand over mouth and her face shining with tears. “Aw, guys, I see our manager crying.”

“Allison, no!” Scott says into his mic, squinting toward where Stiles is pointing.

She takes her hand off her mouth to wave them off, revealing a wide smile. 

“Can you tell her there’s nothing to cry about?” Stiles asks of the audience. 

They all cheer to let her know.

Stiles blows her a kiss that she pretends to bat away. 

Later during the after-show chaos, Allison approaches Stiles with a suspecting look on her face.

“Nothing to cry about?” she asks.

Stiles grins at her and pulls her into a sweaty hug. She only cringes a little. “We’ll talk in Barcelona.” 

“Why not now?” she asks, but Stiles has already released her. Derek’s smirking at him from across the room and he can’t have that go unacknowledged. He’s going to drag him to a dark corner somewhere to wipe that smirk right off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When Rome's in ruins we are the lions" is a lyric from Young Volcanoes by Fall Out Boy! (Aside from it saying ROME in it, I also chose this because one of my favorite moments from a concert ever was seeing this song live at the SRAR tour and now I'm crying about it again.)
> 
> You Make My Dreams is a Hall and Oates song!
> 
> Green Eyes is a Coldplay song!
> 
> Grand Theft Autumn/Where Is Your Boy is another Fall Out Boy song (oops no regrets).
> 
> Feeling This is a Blink-182 song!
> 
> So much music in this one, yay!
> 
> I HAVE NO WORDS ABOUT HOW MUCH I APPRECIATE ALL OF YOU. All my words about this subject are temporarily offline. Just know that I love you. I'm blaming all typos on Comic Con this time around. I hope you are all being blessed with copious coverage of your faves.
> 
> Come play with me on [tumblr](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/) if you'd like. :)


	21. Coast of Barcelona/Mountains of Madrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on songs and playlists:  
> [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!  
> [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks)'s totally perfect 8tracks [playlist](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)
> 
> IT IS STRONGLY ADVISED THAT YOU LISTEN TO BRAND NEW'S DEJA ENTENDU DURING THE CHICAGO FLASHBACK. [Here's a full album YouTube link for your convenience.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Ss1fdxTr7M)

Stiles pulls Derek into the bathroom and shoves him back against the door when it swings closed. His shirt is damp and he smells fantastic, like cologne and sweat and body heat. Derek makes a pleased, shuddering laugh-like sound, his hands landing on Stiles’ ass. 

“Hi,” Stiles says, smiling at him.

“Hey.” 

Stiles tilts his chin up and Derek pulls him the rest of the way into a searing kiss. He pulls back just a little to look at him, devious. “Quickie?” he asks.

“Charming, Stiles.” But his body answers for him, his inability to keep his hands off of him answers for him.

“I try.” Stiles presses against him and rolls his hips. 

Derek growls and slides his hands up the back of Stiles’ shirt. His hands go from passive and exploratory to strong and commanding, he grips Stiles’ waist and pushes him until he’s against the counter. Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulders and slides his hands up his neck until he’s cradling his face in his hands.

Derek’s skin is still hot from the stage and his eyes are still bright with adrenaline. And Stiles… Stiles just ducks forward and kisses his forehead and nose and cheeks while Derek hoists him up onto the counter. 

Derek’s face ends up against Stiles’ neck, his tongue licking broad stripes up his throat, his teeth dragging against his skin. Stiles can’t fight the groan that slips out. He settles on the spot below Stiles’ jaw and Stiles reaches for his waistband. 

Whatever Derek is doing is definitely going to leave a mark but Stiles wouldn’t dream of telling him to stop. He used to. He used to shove his face away in frustration, he used to dread the disappointed look Allison gave him if he ever showed up with hickeys and stubble burn. But now he doesn’t care. Derek’s hard and making the best noises Stiles has ever heard. His skin feels sensitive and electric under Derek’s touch. 

Stiles holds Derek’s head to his neck, encourages it, begs for it. His free hand fumbles with Derek’s fly and slips inside. When he gets his hand around Derek’s hot dick, Derek moans against him. Stiles laughs and turns to bury his face in his hair.

Derek gets his hands on Stiles’ hips and drags him closer, forcing Stiles’ wrist into an awkward angle, and bites down on his neck even harder. 

“Mmmfuck,” Stiles grits out. He feels Derek grin.

Stiles guides Derek’s face back to him, kisses him sweetly. Derek’s hands dig into his thighs, pressing his legs tight around his hips. Someone bangs on the door when Derek’s labored breathing itself is getting Stiles riled up. 

“Ignore it,” Stiles mumbles, sliding his thumb over his slick head. Derek bites his lip to keep from groaning and nods.

“Stiles, I can hear you!” Boyd calls, banging on the door again. “You guys can fuck all over Barcelona for all I care, but we need to go!”

“Just a second!” Stiles calls, moving his hand faster. 

“We need to get back to the hotel,” Boyd insists.

Stiles pulls Derek into a rough kiss, sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, swallows every sound Derek makes. Boyd pounds on the door, cursing at them about international flights. When Derek comes, the sound he makes is unholy and beautiful and Stiles laughs about it.

“Did you just get off while I’m out here fucking talking to you?” Boyd asks, horrified.

Derek hides his face against Stiles’ shoulder. 

“I had forgotten how disgusting you two are. Seriously. Clean yourselves up, there are fans out there.” 

There had been a point, around the time when Lydia’s college acceptance letters started rolling in and he had to fight tooth and nail to keep them from giving up, that Stiles had almost just let them go. He’d thought it through. He’d thought of living with Derek in Palo Alto while he went to Stanford and maybe going to community college. He’d hoped that Paige and Derek would break up, unable to deal with the long-distance. He’d hoped that he and Derek could slowly transition into dating, really dating. No one would care, because they wouldn’t be anybody. Just a couple of dudes in love, going to school, whatever. 

The idea of it made him feel warm and comfortable and a little sad. He feels that way now. He’s rinsing his hand off in the sink behind him while Derek recovers on his shoulder and he’s thinking about what would happen if he just… came out. If he just put the ball back in the label’s court, if he just destroyed his own marketability, if the band never recovered. If everything else fell apart, well… maybe eventually he’d be able to kiss Derek at a restaurant and tell him he loves him where other people could hear. 

And that made the risk seem kind of worth it.

**

When they finally make their way out to the green room, Boyd raises his eyebrows at them. His eyes drift to Stiles’ neck and back to Derek’s face. “The fans aren’t going to suspect a thing,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm

“Let them,” Stiles says. 

“At least try to cover that up,” Boyd half-heartedly pleads, tossing Stiles’ sweater at him.

Derek’s head is still clouded and his lips are still tingling and he can still taste Stiles’ skin, but he’s pretty sure the defiant smirk Stiles sent Boyd actually happened… pretty sure.

“Christ,” Boyd curses as he shoulders the door open and leads them out into the midst of a group of fans.

Stiles signs tickets and posters and poses for pictures with fans, smiling like he hadn’t just been jerking Derek off, but he looks a little fucked. Flushed skin, bright eyes, swollen lips… Derek feels fucked, probably looks it too. He feels tired and blissful, but part of him is sinking like a stone. He can’t stop thinking about Stiles’ hips under his hands or his skin under his teeth. 

Boyd leans against the car with his arms crossed over his chest. Marcus is trying his best to get them to move on. Derek hugs a crying fan who tells him in heavily accented English that she’d met him before and he seems so much happier now and he wants to tell her that he is but he’s also terrified, he’s never been so scared to lose someone in his life. He thanks her instead.

“Okay, okay, Boyd’s going to kill us, we have to go,” Stiles says beside him when he pulls away from the girl. He wraps his arms around Derek’s waist to tug him away. Derek can feel cameras pointed at them, he schools his face into a neutral expression, he doesn’t react when Stiles slides his hands across his lower back and stomach even though he can _feel_ it in his knees, he doesn’t react when he grabs his wrist and pulls him toward the car. 

**

Derek’s asleep on the floor - headphones on, head on his backpack, hands in his sweater pockets. The terminal is empty except for the traveling circus, most of them slumped over or stretched across chairs, trying to sleep. Stiles has Lydia’s head in his lap, Scott has Allison asleep on his shoulder.

“Have you found a place yet?” Scott asks, voice low and scratchy. 

Stiles looks away from Derek’s rising and falling chest.

“Oh. No. Allison sent me listings to look at but I haven’t.”

Scott nods.

“Are you um… still mad about that?” 

Scott shrugs his Allison-free shoulder and shakes his head. “It just sucks.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He feels a twinge of what he felt the summer Melissa elected to send Scott to camp somewhere up in Oregon. Lonely, sad, impatient for him to return... Scott is right there, only an inch of space between them, and he misses him already.

“I’m sorry, though, that was… shitty of me.”

Stiles shrugs. “It’s fine, man.”

“It just felt like you were leaving us.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I could never do that.”

“I know.”

A couple seconds pass in companionable silence, Stiles’ mind on overdrive, until he clears his throat. “You’re my best friend, you know.” Scott deserves an explanation, they all do. He owes this to them.

“I know,” Scott answers, rolling his head to look at him, big brown eyes and soft smile making him look more like the kid Stiles first befriended.

“And I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“You mean the world to me.”

Scott laughs a little. “You too. Where’s this headed?”

“I’m moving because I want to be closer to my dad and I want to just… relax. And be away from all the shit LA brings with it. I don’t always feel better, you know? Sometimes I feel just the same as I did before rehab and that’s really…”

“Scary,” Scott supplies.

Stiles nods. “So I’m going home to just… keep working on it. I’m not running away.” Stiles puts his hand on Lydia’s head, careful not to wake her. He just needed to touch her, to close the circuit between the three of them. “I mean, I feel really good now but… I can’t slip up, you know? I need to feel solid again.”

“I get it. We can make long distance work. You go work on yourself, I’ll do my thing, we’ll reunite and it’ll be great.”

Scott’s easy belief in their friendship makes Stiles feel warm and centered. They had two shows left, a handful of days left until their flight home and they were… better. Getting there. When they’d started this tour, Scott and Stiles barely even spoke… 

“And my guest room is always open to you, you know. If you don’t want to ditch LA right away when we get back, you should stay over… Maybe we could write a few more songs before you go or something.”

The last statement comes paired with a bashful, hopeful glance. If Scott means what Stiles thinks he means, then the future is already looking a little brighter and more certain. Stiles grins. “Yeah, buddy.”

**

November 11th.  
Barcelona, Spain.

“Hey, we’re trending worldwide under three different hashtags,” Allison informs them over breakfast. “Smokes for Harris, Feeling This and, oh, look at that… Sterek Exists.”

Derek has to will himself to swallow his coffee without choking. Stiles actually turns away from the table to hide his laughter.

“There are pictures and video and everything,” Allison continues.

“Of what, exactly?” Lydia asks, accusation and concern in her voice.

“Them meeting fans last night, looking flirty, nothing out of the ordinary here.”

“Oh,” Lydia says, waving it off.

Allison squints at her iPad and zooms in on whatever she’s looking at. “Stiles, let me see your neck.” He turns back to the table and pulls his collar aside. “Damn, Derek, what on earth is that?” 

Derek just takes a long sip of coffee to avoid answering. He’d learned that there was nothing he could say to diffuse Allison when she was about to lecture… She shakes her head and huffs out a laugh and sets her iPad down. “So what are we doing today?”

Derek lifts both eyebrows at her in surprise. Stiles is still beside him as if waiting for her to backtrack.

“What?” she asks, looking between them. “Oh, you thought I was going to yell at you.”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “I can’t control the fans, remember?” Stiles had said something like that back in LA before the tour started. “How are we spending our day off?”

“In sweatpants, hopefully,” Lydia says sternly. Everyone agrees.

**

November 12th.

“Barcelona, you know what’s next,” Stiles tells their writhing crowd. “We had so much fun playing with everyone in Rome, we figured we’d keep doing it. So the gang’s all here.” He gestures behind him at the rest of them. 

“Tonight is our second to last show, so we wanted to make it count. Can you fucking believe that?” He directs the question back toward the bands assembled. He’s tired, he’s been tired, but he feels like he can keep going another month if they had to. Absolutely. Things have started to click again, things have gotten fun again, he’s started loving this again. He frowns comically back toward the audience. 

“Stall for a bit, we’re having issues with the network,” Jackson sighs, petulant, through the in-ears. 

“I’m being told to stall, so what do you guys want to talk about?” Stiles asks the audience, unhooking his mic from the stand to wander around. Barcelona cheers back at him. He looks to Scott and shrugs.

“Let’s talk about yesterday,” Scott suggests.

“What about yesterday, Scotty?” 

There had been a lot of Instagram evidence of their previous day, despite their refusal to leave the hotel. Stiles had posted a video of a shirtless Scott laughing and singing while eating a sandwich out on the balcony. (“As far as best friends go, @ScottyMcCall is a pretty solid option.”)

“About how much new shit we recorded for the YouTube and how we’re old as hell now because we all knocked out before midnight.” 

There’s a lot of cheering about the promise of videos. Stiles is tempted to say something suggestive about how he was kept up way past midnight, but the image of Derek on his knees in front of him, strong fingers and tongue all over him… is distracting. He has a job to do. He looks over at Derek, unable to help it, and knows he’s thinking the same thing.

“We did a few very enthusiastic covers of things with Royales,” Lydia continues from the drum stand. They had gotten back to the hotel and tried to drag them out for lunch but got suckered into playing instead. They hadn’t complained. Stiles had posted a picture of all of them crammed onto a couch with guitars laying on the floor around them. (“@SmokesForHarris and @Royales = five heart-eyes emojis.”)

“In pajamas,” Stiles adds. “You’ll get to see Lydia at her most beautiful.” Lydia preens a little before flipping him off. He’d posted a picture of her and her squinty-eyed smile, messy top-knot and all, the day before. (“@LydzMartini what a babe.”)

“We did Hakuna Matata at one point,” Derek adds. He’d posted a picture of him too – decked out in stubble, glasses, a loose-fitting shirt and a warm grin as he leaned over his bass. (“@ThisIsTheRealDerekHale is the hottest human alive.”)

Stiles starts strumming the guitar line they’d improvised for it and Scott starts humming into his mic. Stiles makes his way back to his stand and clips the mic into place. “It means no worries for the rest of our days,” he sings. 

Derek and Erica join in on the harmony for “it’s our problem free philosophy” but both drop out to laugh before finishing the verse.

Stiles stops playing to laugh too. “That’s it, that’s our cover for tonight. Moving on,” he says into the mic. The audience is laughing, some of them continue singing the rest of the song.

“Just a couple minutes, guys,” Jackson updates them.

“Alright, I lied,” Stiles confesses. “But we still have to stall sooo…” He weighs his options and scratches at his neck in thought. A lot of the day before had also been spent getting made fun of for stubble burn and hickeys. Scott had found a tweet that said, “God bless the return of stubble burn. Wonder who gave that to him?” in the Sterek Exists hashtag. Speaking of which… “You guys got us trending worldwide after Rome. Under a few different hashtags, if I’m correct.” The audience response is a frantic, delighted sound.

“Feeling This,” Scott supplies. 

“Smokes for Harris, straight to the point,” Lydia adds over a low drum roll.

“And what was the third one, Derek?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know, Stiles, what was it?” he counters.

“I don’t know, babe, I forgot.” Stiles grins wolfishly at him and pulls back from his mic. The audience’s screaming reaches a whole new volume. Derek shakes his head and looks down at his pedals, nudging them with his feet. Stiles tilts his head to catch his smile. There’s an alternate universe where Stiles doesn’t have to worry about making the same mistakes and losing him all over again, where Stiles is open and free and Derek doesn’t have to hide from anything.

Derek had posted a picture of Stiles with his guitar in his lap. He had been looking up at Derek, an effortless smile on. He had been playing the guitar line of a Bob Dylan song he knew Derek loved. (“My own personal radio. I missed this. @Bilinski”) 

Erica bangs out something on the piano and croons, “Can you feel the love tonight?” 

He exchanges flirty looks with Derek – partially to rile up the audience, mostly because he can’t help it. Jackson clucks at them before saying, “Alright, before you out yourselves on stage… we’re good to go.”

“Okay, okay, let’s get this show on the road, enough funny business,” Stiles scolds everyone when he gets back to his mic. “This is a very serious rock show. Anyway, we had this whole intro planned but whatever, this is Sing Sing by Marianas Trench.” 

**

“What’s going to happen?” Derek asks, fingers tangled in Stiles’ hair. He’s not even sure if he’s still awake. His breathing is slow and even and the air outside the blankets is cool and damp and still smells like them and Derek would love to let the distant waves rock him to sleep, would love to revel in the soft warmth encasing Stiles and him. But he can’t stop thinking. 

They hadn’t talked about the future of the band since Allison told them about the other label. And Derek… well, Derek didn’t have to be so invested anyway. If they went on, he wasn’t necessarily going to be included. He had a touring contract, not a full-time position… And if they don’t go on, what are they going to do? How’s it going to work? What’ll be next? 

Just when he’s sure that Stiles must be asleep, Stiles responds, his voice clear as a bell. “I don’t know.”

“What do you want to happen?” Derek asks.

Stiles lifts his head off of Derek’s shoulder a little to look at him. Derek can only see the basic shapes of his face, none of the fine details. But his eyes. His eyes look black in the dark, but the moonlight that casts the room in silver makes them look deep and alive. 

“I don’t know. What do you want?”

“I want you guys to be happy.”

“That’s it?”

And no, that’s not it. Derek wants to be happy too. 

And maybe this is what makes him happy. This band, this career, Stiles. Every time he denies himself, he ends up miserable. Quitting had been necessary but it had killed him. School had killed him. Law school had made him miserable. But this tour had made him feel… like himself. But better. He shifts and tightens his hold on Stiles’ waist.

“No,” he says, barely louder than a whisper.

“What else, then?” Stiles asks, burying his face against Derek’s neck.

If it had been earlier in the night or later in the morning or any other time really, he wouldn’t be able to say it. But covered in darkness, reality bleeding around the edges…

“I want to stay.” With Stiles, in the band.

Stiles murmurs happily, sleep edging into his voice. He nuzzles against Derek and kisses his neck softly. “It’s going to be okay.”

Derek smiles up at the ceiling and he listens to Stiles breathing and he focuses on Stiles’ skin on his. 

“If I come out, would you still want to stay?” Stiles asks, his voice a sleepy drawl, barely louder than a breath.

Derek waits for him to ask again or take it back or say he’s joking, but he doesn’t. 

“Stiles?” Derek asks, wanting him to explain himself.

But he’s already asleep.

**

November 22nd, 2011.  
Chicago, IL.

Paige didn’t say a thing until she shut her bedroom door behind them, muffling the sounds of the party Derek had walked into upon entering her suite. “What are you doing in Chicago?” 

“We, uh, have a show tomorrow?” 

“Right. Right, yeah, I forgot… you’re touring, that’s… crazy. Congratulations.” She backed up and sat on the edge of her bed. “How’s everyone?”

“They’re good.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“I messed up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you did. But we’ve moved on, I forgave you, I understand.”

“What do you understand?”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “That you were confused.”

Derek shook his head. “No, I messed up. I should never have cheated and I should have just… kept you.”

It was her turn to shake her head. She even laughed a little. “I liked you a lot, but it didn’t work. It never would have worked. And that’s fine. Are you and Stiles fighting or something?”

Derek ignored the question. “Are you seeing anyone?” He mentally kicked himself when he heard how desperate he sounded.

“No.”

“So give me another shot.”

“No, Derek,” she said firmly.

“What if I promised I’d never touch him again, what if I still love you?”

“I would never ask you to make that promise,” she said. “You’re still confused, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. I…” He was. He absolutely was. Paige was beautiful and sweet and smiling sadly up at him from her dorm bed. Her cello case balanced on a chair in front of a music stand. Her textbooks were stacked on her desk. A collage of pictures of her friends and family covered the greater part of the wall above her bed. She was exactly who he should have been with – this smart, lovely, talented girl. This real person. He should have been going to school too, maybe. They should have been at school together, doing whatever it is that college kids do. Derek should have been planning on a proposal before graduation. He should have to take her into consideration when he applies to law school… The night before, Derek had been high as a kite in the back lounge of a tour bus, suppressing the urge to suck Stiles off when everyone else went to bed, and she was here. Ideal, normal, perfect on paper… “I love you, Paige.” And it felt awkward to say. It felt wrong in his mouth.

She laughed. “No you don’t. I’ve heard this all before, Derek. Deep down, you want Stiles. You’re allowed. You can have him. He’s already yours, he already loves you back.”

“I don’t love Stiles. Not like that.”

“Yeah? Where is he, anyway? How’s he doing?”

“He’s outside…”

She smirked. “He must hate you.”

And that somehow cut him deep. 

“What do you mean?”

“You dragged him here to come try to get me back? And he’s outside waiting for you? It’s going to snow tonight, you know? He’s way too skinny and Californian to be out in this kind of cold. Derek… He loves you. Why are you doing this to him?”

Derek didn’t respond.

“You’re so selfish sometimes.”

He still didn’t respond.

“Are you really in love with me, or are you just afraid of loving Stiles?”

He was horrified. Terrified. Petrified. Derek stared at her with his mouth slightly parted, submission slowly taking him over. Fuck. He couldn’t even think of another girl he would want. He couldn’t even think of another guy. 

Paige moved over and patted the bed beside her. Derek somehow found the strength to actually get there.

“It’s okay,” she said, holding his hand. “He’s a good looking guy. And talented. And fun. And he makes you happy. It’s totally fine. You’ll be so happy once you just… decide.”

“Decide what?” he mumbled.

“To embrace that you want him.”

And he did, he really did… But she thought it was so much simpler than it really was. If he chose Stiles, he’d be choosing to keep the love of his life secret. He’d be choosing to extra rules and guidelines from the label. He’d hate it… But it’d be better than whatever he and Paige could cobble together.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said after awhile. “You don’t deserve this.”

“You’re forgiven,” she said, leaning to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s seriously supposed to snow tonight, get him somewhere warm.”

She walked him out, through a group of good kids. Smart kids with secure futures ahead of them. Kids giggling over cheap beer, casual hook-ups and tame weed. They were the kind of kids Derek and everyone else in the band could have easily become but chose not to.

“Do you hate me?” Derek asked her out in the hallway. The life he could have had gently raged on behind the door. He felt like a cardboard cut-out of someone else.

She shook her head and smiled at him. “I should, but no.”

Outside the building, Stiles was distracted smoking a cigarette that had burnt to the filter. He spouted some lyrics at him and Derek resisted the urge to smooth his thumb across his lips when he plucked the dying cigarette out of his mouth… Stiles kept going, kept talking about Brand New. Derek didn’t care about Brand New right then, he cared about getting back to the hotel and their friends. He cared about getting Stiles to stop shivering. 

Derek could hear the guitar, somber and pretty as it echoed around. Of course he knew the song, of course he did. 

“I need you like water in my lungs,” Derek grumbled to shut Stiles up. Stiles’ face lit up. “Let’s go.”

His blood pounded in his ears and he knew Stiles was talking but he felt so far away. He heard Stiles’ voice but he didn’t _hear_ it. He was too busy panicking. Too busy surfing the waves of realization that kept on crashing and crashing. The car was cold when they got in. 

“So… what’d she say?”

“She said no.”

"No? That's it? No explanation?" What fucking explanation did he expect? No, her ex was a closeted, confused homosexual? No, she was convinced he was in love with Stiles? No, she felt bad for him but no? Fuck.

"She just said no."

"So what now?" Derek pictured himself slamming his palms against the steering wheel and yelling. He pictured himself telling Stiles to shut the fuck up and let it go. He pictured himself telling Stiles he didn’t love him, to stop, to leave him alone. He wanted Stiles to choose against him. He didn’t want to love Stiles, he didn’t. He didn’t want what came with it. 

And then he pictured Stiles upset and angry, eyes shimmering with hateful tears. He didn’t want that.

Stiles shivered and shivered and kept his eyes trained on Derek. Derek loved him. He did. He really did. 

All the little displays lit up when he turned the key in the ignition and the radio started to play, soft. Stiles’ breath fogged up the air in front of his face and dissolved. Derek turned up the heat. He wanted to tuck him under his chin and keep him there, close to him. He wanted to stop hating that he wanted that.

“Nothing,” Derek finally answered when he realized the question was still open. Nothing with Paige. Nothing tonight. He didn’t want to answer the question Stiles was really asking. 

Stiles burrowed into his jacket and stared out the passenger side window as they drove. Derek willfully passed the hotel and kept driving.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asked, his voice masked in gruff indifference. 

“Driving.”

Stiles sighed and slid down a little in his seat. 

“Give me your phone,” Derek commanded, holding his palm up.

“Why?”

“Give it.”

Stiles shot him a disgruntled look but dropped it into his hand anyway. They sat at a red light and Derek plugged the phone into the car. The opening notes of Tautou started to play and Derek turned the volume up as loud as he could handle.

Stiles looked over at him with utter disbelief before smiling. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the first time he’d kissed him and the first time they touched each other and the first time they had sex and all the other firsts and the other potential firsts that floated out there on the road ahead. The music plays on and the street slips away beneath them and Stiles is next to him and he feels more and more _real_ as the seconds tick by.

“How do you feel about me? Stiles asked in the silence after Sic Transit Gloria.

Derek didn’t answer right away. The next song started and Stiles turned back to watch Chicago slip by the window, dark and light and quiet.

“I wrote more postcards than hooks, I read more maps than books. Feel like every chance to leave is another chance I should have took…” Jesse Lacey and Stiles Stilinski sang in perfect harmony.

Derek listened. He listened to the way his voice bent through glissandos and dipped into a lower register and lifted to match higher notes. He listened to him hum guitar in between lyrics. He listened to him mask his own panic in sound.

Derek saw a sign that pointed to Belmont Harbor and he followed it.

The song blurred into the next without a pause.

“I am heaven sent, don’t you dare forget—“

“I love you,” Derek said, raising his voice over the music.

“—I am all you’ve ever wanted… _What?_ ”

Derek pulled up on the side of the road looking out over the dark water. He put the car in park and undid his seatbelt and turned to look at Stiles. His eyes were wide, his mouth hung open.

“That’s how I feel about you.” Derek reached out and turned the volume down. “If that’s okay.”

Derek had said it before. Stiles had said it before. But this was final. Derek didn’t say it lightly, Stiles didn’t take it lightly. He stared at Derek as if waiting for him to take it back until Okay I Believe You’s dying notes. It was the longest song Derek had ever heard…

“But, Paige…” Stiles started.

Derek shook his head. “It was never Paige.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You better be sure, because this is a whole new level of asshole if you aren’t sure.”

Derek leaned over the center console and kissed him. He yelped a little against his mouth but melted under Derek’s warm touch. Derek was sure. It hurt and it was terrifying but true. He heard the click of Stiles releasing his seatbelt and he shifted for better leverage.

His hands were cold on Derek’s neck at first, but the longer they stayed like there the warmer they got. Derek poured everything into it. He was sure, he was sure, he was so sure. It was going to be hard. Allison had warned them that it would be. She’d told them what it would mean to be together in this band. Derek hadn’t touched Stiles, really touched him, since. It’d been a month. He was starving for him. 

The music in the background bled into a continuous wall of sound. It led them through different moods, some more frantic others more rhythmic, intense and dark, soft and mournful… Derek tried to touch every part of him he could reach. His ribs still stuck out a little too much on his thin frame, his hips were still sharp, he was still the best kisser Derek had ever kissed, he was still perfect, not on paper but _actually_ perfect…

Derek lost track of time until Stiles pulled away as a driving guitar line slowly faded to silence. He pushed Derek away when he tried to duck back in. The look he gave him was awed and glassy-eyed. The windshield was fogged up and dusted with snow. 

“That was a high school dream come true,” Stiles murmured, fingers curling around Derek’s.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “Making out to Brand New? You can’t get much more high school than that.”

Soft acoustic guitar filled the car. The same song the girl in the courtyard had been playing. The same song Stiles listened to in wonder as he waited in the cold for him, supporting him in his stupidest effort even though it must have killed him.

“Let’s go back,” Stiles said softly, curling his hand around Derek’s knee. “Before they worry.”

It was snowing harder now. The windshield was almost completely covered. “What they call love is a risk, you always get hit out of nowhere,” Jesse Lacey sang.

Derek leaned over and kissed Stiles on the cheek. “Okay, babe,” Derek whispered.

“Gross, don’t call me babe,” Stiles argued half-heartedly, but his smile betrayed him.

**

November 13th.  
Madrid, Spain.

In the quiet moments after load-in, their final one of the tour, they’re all on the stage, soaking it in, reflecting silently together… Erica and the twins talk softly amongst themselves not too far away, Smokes leans against the amps, Derek’s at Erica’s piano. He’s playing something soft and simple and if Stiles focuses on that enough, he can almost let go of how much this all sort of… aches. 

Stiles is staring. Derek’s long eyelashes cast shadows over his cheek bones, his eyes trained on the keys. His face is soft, his natural expression looking less scary and more gentle than usual in the low light. Stiles recognizes the tune, just barely. 

Scott nudges him. “Go jam,” he says softly when Stiles slowly tears his eyes away to look at him. Scott’s face is earnest. Lydia smiles at him from beyond Scott and nods. Stiles just smiles back and rises to his feet.

“And it’s all that I can do to stay with all the things I didn’t say to you before you moved across the country,” Stiles says softly in careful rhythm along with his playing. He stops walking and leans his knee on the bench.

Derek looks up at him and nods, scooting over for him to sit. 

“Your soft spot for Jack’s Mannequin is really adorable to me,” Stiles confesses. 

“Your reluctance to listen and ultimate submission to this album is a memory that I will always cherish,” Derek deadpans back. 

Stiles feels that stupid, shy smile fighting its way to the surface. 

“It was the right time and place,” Stiles declares. “Summer, driving on Highway 1…”

“On our way to Outside Lands.”

“Summer after junior year.”

“On the first anniversary of my father’s death.”

Stiles’ heart aches at that. Derek must be able to sense it because he gives him a little smile that says it’s okay. 

“My family wanted me to spend it with them, but I just wanted to spend it with you,” he continues. 

“I didn’t know that part.”

Derek nods, his hands sliding off the keys and into his lap. “Taking Highway 1 was the least convenient way to get there.”

“Traffic sucked, but this album,” Stiles supplies, bringing it back to where they had started. “Needs to be appreciated by the seaside.” It’s almost a direct quote. 

Derek nods. “Exactly.”

They look at each other. Just look at each other. And Stiles wants to lean forward and kiss him. Definitely wants that. 

“That’s when.” Derek says, his hands flying back to the keys as he looks away. He clears his throat uncomfortably and starts playing something different.

“When what?” Stiles asks.

“When I realized I, uh, liked you. Like, you know…”

Stiles’ heart is in his throat, his stomach is somewhere in the basement of the theater… “That early on?” Stiles asks. That had been the summer before Paige and the summer before kissing him and the summer before they got signed…

“Yeah. I mean, I was confused about it for awhile but… yeah.”

Derek is still picking out the melody of some song Stiles doesn’t immediately recognize and Stiles is still gaping at him in wonder, when Erica bounds over to them. 

“Slip inside the eye of your miiind, don’t you know you might find a better place to plaaay,” she starts singing. Derek’s face splits into a grin. And suddenly Stiles recognizes it.

By the time they hit the chorus, everyone else has gathered around too.

“Don’t look back in anger, I heard ya saaay,” everyone else chants. But Stiles is still thunderstruck. He’s watching Derek play and he’s dimly aware that Aiden and Lydia are slapping a complex little rhythm against the piano’s lid and he notes the sudden change in temperature from the bodies around him and he can feel… something… he can feel adoration. Derek’s eyes are sparkling as he plays and sings too. He presses his knee against Stiles’ leg and Stiles still can’t shake the swirling combination of nerves and awe that has his tongue paralyzed in his mouth.

“More, more!” Erica cheers when they finish. Stiles looks up at her in a daze. He looks around at the rest of them as they agree.

“You’re the maestro here,” Derek says, holding his hands up in front of him. “You play.”

Stiles gets up when Derek does and his spot is taken by Scott. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, one hand on Stiles’ shoulder. 

Everyone is immersed in another song and Stiles’ attention is split between how amazing it feels to hear them all singing together and how blown away he is by Derek’s…. confession and existence and presence… 

“You are…” Stiles says, trying to focus in on one thing. “Something.” 

And what he means is… that there had been something missing when Derek was gone. And not just from Stiles himself, and not just from the band’s roster. But when Derek was here, he completed the picture of them like no one else could. He played with them like he belonged, and he did. His voice made the songs feel fuller. His presence was calming and reassuring. He brought a sense of security to them, he always had. Somehow. And now that they had him back, Stiles wasn’t sure if anyone else could ever fill his absence ever again. He was it for them, he was their bassist, they were his band…

And Derek was it for him, he’d figured that out years ago. And maybe Stiles was it for Derek too. He hopes so, because even though he knows they have a lot to work on and a lot of things in their lives to stabilize… he wants to take this risk. 

Derek _loves_ him and that is so cool, seriously.

Stiles pulls Derek in by the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t care that everyone else is just a few feet away. He pulls him in and he kisses him and thinks about puzzle pieces. He thinks about all the bad kissers he’d encountered since Derek. He thinks about the people whose bodies felt wrong against his. He thinks about how Isaac had fit in the band so well, but there had been an undefined empty space around him that he couldn’t quite fill by himself. And he thinks about how his band, inches from utter ruin, had blossomed when Derek came back. And he thinks about how kissing Derek is so familiar it’s not even second nature, it’s just nature. And he thinks about how right he feels pressed against him with everyone watching. 

And they are definitely watching, if the amount of clapping and cheering is anything to go by as Derek kisses him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coast of Barcelona/Mountains of Madrid is a reference to the lyric "Oh, but I just thought you might want something fine / Made of silver or of golden / Either from the mountains of Madrid / Or from the coast of Barcelona?" from Boots of Spanish Leather by Bob Dylan (which is also the song Stiles was playing for Derek at the time of that Instagram post.)
> 
> Hakuna Matata is obvs from Lion King, and it is definitely a shout out to [Ladylokioftardis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladylokioftardis) for pointing out that Girl Worth Fighting For shares its name with a song from Mulan. :D
> 
> Sing Sing is a Marianas Trench song, as I mentioned.
> 
> The entire Chicago flashback is set to ALL of Brand New's Deja Entendu album. <3__<3
> 
> Into the Airwaves is the Jack's Mannequin song Derek's plunking out after load in.
> 
> Don't Look Back in Anger is an Oasis song.
> 
> Outside Lands is a music festival in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park that takes place in August, the year they would have gone would have been 2010. :)
> 
> I AM IN LOVE WITH ALL OF YOU. THIS CHAPTER TOOK A REALLY LONG TIME I'M SO SORRY. IT WAS HARD. Forgive me. 
> 
> Come play on tumblr, it's a good ole time: [LINK](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/)


	22. You Remind Me of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STARTS WITH A FLASHBACK, just so you're not like ????
> 
> THE END IS NIGH. :)
> 
> A note on songs and playlists:  
> [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!  
> [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks)'s totally perfect 8tracks [playlist](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any song suggestions or songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

March, 2011.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

The Sheriff was working an overnight and Derek went back out to the car to grab a wrinkled paper bag after the cruiser pulled out of the driveway. The day leading up to now melted away when Derek bit his lip and smiled shyly up at him from his bed, the bag between his knees. Stiles was one step closer to joining cross-country and he’d probably ruined Lydia’s sweater and Scott would never trust Stiles with a Bunsen burner again and they’re having an extra band practice over the weekend because of Stiles’ inability to focus but… 

But Derek was there, bright eyes catching the light as he looked up at Stiles like he was exactly what he wanted. 

Stiles took the paper bag from him and set it aside and god how he needed to be in between his legs. He ran his hands up his thighs as he leaned over him and he kissed him. Derek’s hand came up to curl around his neck and if he was nervous, he wasn’t showing it. But Stiles was.

“Scoot,” Stiles whispered against his lips. Derek crawled backwards toward the headboard and Stiles followed and pressed his chest against him and felt his body heat through his clothes and…

“Shouldn’t we um…” Derek asked uncertainly.

“Hm?” Stiles slid his hands up his chest and to his neck and up to his hair. 

“I don’t know,” Derek laughed. “How are we going to… do this?”

Stiles kissed him until he kissed him back, until he seemed to forget the question. His body relaxed under him and Stiles extracted one hand from his hair to shove it under Derek’s shirt instead. His skin was soft and slick with sweat and Stiles would never get over the feeling of it under his hands. 

Derek’s hips bucked up against him and Stiles felt the familiar outline of his dick through his jeans and he wanted to touch. Stiles’ breath hitched and he laughed at himself, at his own desperation. Derek’s hands fell on his waist and alternated between uselessly shoving at his waistband and pushing up his shirt. 

“Need you,” Derek said after tearing his face away from the mind-numbing kiss. His lips were wet and parted and he was panting and his eyes were searching Stiles’ face for confirmation or confidence or something…

Stiles swallowed and took a deep breath and nodded and pulled his shirt off. Derek struggled out of his and watched with heaving chest as Stiles’ traced the outline of him through his jeans. “Are you sure?” Stiles asked.

He nodded. 

Stiles unzipped him and unbuttoned him and pulled his jeans down while Derek lifted his hips. He let out a shuddery breath, capped in an almost inaudible whine. Stiles wasn’t unfamiliar with Derek’s body, but to see it all laid out and naked all at once was…

“Focus,” Derek commanded, impatient as he reached into Stiles’ pants. 

Stiles sucked his neck and wiggled out of his pants as best as he could without having to remove his tongue from Derek’s salty skin. When he let his hips drop, the feeling of being totally naked against a totally naked Derek made him moan. It made his heart thump painfully in his chest and it made him sink his teeth into the skin below the hinge of his jaw.

And usually Derek told him not to leave any marks, but he didn’t say anything. He parted his legs and gripped his hips, too shy to reach for his ass, and his breath was labored and _fuuuck_ Stiles was in over his head with this one. 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asked again. Derek arched up against him and nodded. 

“Is this… is this the…? Are we…?” 

“Yes, fuck, c’mon,” Derek demanded.

Stiles pulled away just enough to reach for the bag of condoms and to grope around his bedside drawer for lube. 

“This is going to be, um, uncomfortable?” Stiles said with uncertainty.

“Obviously.”

“I need to um… get you ready.”

“I know.”

“Right, of course.” Of course. They hadn’t actually… explicitly talked about this. They’d talked about it being a possibility at some point. Stiles hadn’t thought Derek was so serious about it. Serious enough to _research_. But he was glad. And he was secretly freaking the fuck out.

Oh, but the sounds he made. With each little breath or groan or moan or keening whine or whimper, Stiles found himself getting calmer. He wanted to make it good for him, he wanted to make him want more, he wanted him. He absolutely wanted him. He wanted him at any cost, regardless of risk. He looked down at his flushed face and neck and the glimmering sweat on his brow and his eyes and he knew he loved him. Actually loved him. It wasn’t a crush, it wasn’t mild like or mere sexual attraction. It was love. And that was stupid. Stiles knew that.

When Stiles finally pushed into him, he did it slowly and he watched the beautiful ways Derek’s face changed and the way his eyes fluttered shut. When their bodies were flush against each other again, Stiles totally buried in him, Stiles kissed him slowly and licked into his mouth and held him and felt Derek’s heartbeat through his chest.

This wasn’t what he’d pictured. The way they had been going, he pictured something wild. Dirty talk and frantic movement and speed and heat. Now that he was there, he didn’t want that. He wanted to take his time because if this freaked Derek out too much, this would be his only chance and suddenly this chance felt so precious. 

“You okay?” Stiles asked, hoping Derek would think the lack of movement was for his own advantage and not because Stiles was drowning in a flood of emotions…

Derek nodded and pulled him back into a soft kiss. And Stiles was hoping that he wasn’t just taking his time to adjust and that he really wanted it this way. God, Stiles had never felt so connected to another person in his life and he hated that.

When they finally got around to moving, Derek didn’t last long. But he begged Stiles to finish and kept him from pulling out and Stiles didn’t last much longer after that. 

They laid together in bed afterward and Stiles’ mind was racing. The sex had been brief and inexpert and just… _everything_. He listened to Derek catch his breath and felt grounded. When he looked at him, he saw that he was staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. He saw that he was panicking quietly. He saw that. He knew it. He understood it. He didn’t know what it would mean after tonight, but he knew what it meant right now. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tell him that everything was going to be okay and that he didn’t have to ever do it again but if he did, it was okay. It was okay to like it. It was okay to like him. Stiles would help him through this and it would be fine. Stiles loved him and even if Derek didn’t love him back, he would still be his friend and he didn’t want to lose him and…

“Stiles,” Derek said.

“Hm?” Stiles murmurs, trying to sound relaxed even though he didn’t feel relaxed.

“Fair/Unfair.”

“Alright.”

“I finished embarrassingly fast.”

“Unfair,” Stiles answered with a smile. “I’m a sex god.”

Derek laughed. “Inconclusive data. Unfair. But uh… it was good.” He laughed a little and rubbed his hand over his face.

Stiles almost responded by saying: “I’ll prove it next time.” But there might not be a next time. 

Derek turned onto his side to look at him. “That was pretty intense.” His voice seemed fragile.

Stiles nodded. “Fair.” He tangled his fingers with Derek and ran his thumb over the pulse point in his wrist and took him in. He looked so beautiful, flushed and sleepy and golden in the light and… Stiles was so in love with him. Derek nodded and his eyes went distant again. His hand was limp in Stiles’ grip but he couldn’t let him go. Not if this was the last time before he freaked out and shut Stiles out. He needed to fill up on how he felt just in case, just in case.

They were quiet for awhile. Derek was blank-faced and his eyes were staring into the middle distance and Stiles felt a threat of panic swirling in him. God, he didn’t want to lose him. He barely even had him to start with. He realized that he hadn’t given Derek something to respond to.

“Fair/Unfair,” he said to remind him. Derek’s eyes flicked back to him to show he was listening. “You’re in love with me.”

And he looked so frustrated and conflicted. His eyes shimmered with angry tears and he bit his quivering lip and shook his head. “Unfair,” he forced out, barely a whisper. 

It hurt, but not as bad as it could have. Derek’s grip on his hand tightened as if he was afraid of floating away. Stiles clutched him back, afraid that he was floating away. But he stayed the night. He fell asleep naked and gripping Stiles. And he stayed for breakfast. And maybe he would always stay.

**

November 13th.  
Madrid, Spain.

Stiles disappears before sound check. Scott and Allison are nowhere to be seen. Derek can hear Erica and the twins’ laughter and voices echoing from where they hold court up on the terrace level. Lydia and Derek have been sitting in silence for awhile now. 

This feels so bittersweet.

“I am so fucking sad,” Lydia says suddenly, linking her arm with Derek’s as she leans her head against his shoulder.

“Why?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

She shrugs. “End of tour blues.”

“And?”

She shakes her head. “I have so many tours left in me, you know? I could do this forever.”

“You will.”

“I’m not going to do it without them.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to.”

They’re quiet again while the crew starts running through tests. 

“Are you glad you left?” Lydia asks. “Do you feel like you… got something out of it? Was it worth it?”

“I needed to quit.”

“But what if you and Stiles had talked and we had approached everything differently. Would you have stayed and been happy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I was a total mess before I left. I hated the attention and I started doubting myself and… I still thought I had other options. I still thought I would be happier doing something else.”

“Law?”

Derek nods.

“You still have that option.”

“But I love this. This is the only thing I want to do.” He hadn’t admitted that out loud yet. 

She lifts her head to look at him, a scared but hopeful expression on her face. “So come back. For good.”

“Do I have something to come back to?” Derek asks. They still hadn’t talked about it. All signs pointed to them wanting to keep going, but none of them ever said it. If Derek can admit what he wants, then so can they. Derek wants this and he wants them. 

“I hope so. I really do, because I can’t lose them. Or you. I can’t.” She smiles sadly up at him and nudges him with her elbow.

Derek drags her into a hug. He doesn’t want to lose them either.

**

“Dad?” Stiles’ nerves are roaring and crackling through him. He presses the heel of his free hand into his eye and struggles to breathe through the impossible weight on his chest.

“What’s wrong?” the Sheriff asks, thousands of miles away, voice sleep-gruff. “Is everything okay?” Stiles is still trying to breathe. “Son?”

“I um…” Stiles forces himself to begin. “I’m thinking of doing something and I don’t know…”

“Stiles, whatever you’re planning, don’t—“

“Not. No.” His head clears a little at the horror in his father’s voice. He feels so fucking guilty sometimes. “No. Sorry, no. I’m fine. I’m great, actually…” He is. He really is. He is fantastic. Mostly.

His father lets out a breath. “Isn’t today your last show?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“How’s it been? How’s Derek been?”

Stiles hadn’t talked to his father in a month. A whole month. He feels the startling sense of duality that Jackson had mentioned once – tour life versus real life, or whatever. He feels himself tottering on the edge of it. 

“Dad, I love him,” Stiles admits, voice soft and weak.

“I know.” The firm, wise, fatherly tone of it feels like a blessing.

“I think… I mean, I don’t know if tonight is going to be our last show as a band or my last show with Derek or not but… I think I want to… I don’t know, I’m thinking of coming out tonight and I am… freaking out.”

“Do it,” he says as if it’s so simple. 

“You didn’t even ask why I was thinking of doing it, you’ve thrown off this whole conversation, I’d planned it through,” Stiles admonishes with a laugh.

“Son, I want you to be as happy as humanly possible. If you want to come out, you come out. You tell that label of yours to shove it and you free yourself, alright?”

Stiles remembers biting his thumb through a conversation with his father five years ago as he poured over the contents of his son’s brand new contract. “What’s this bullshit about decorum?” he’d asked. “They think this is the military? This is the damn 21st century…” 

“Derek left because he was sick of lying,” Stiles barrels on anyway. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

“Then don’t let it,” he urges. 

“What about the band?”

“Red was telling me your contract’s up and you were telling me you were headed to a hiatus… sounds like a non-issue.”

“I don’t want it to be a non-issue. Wait, when did you talk to Lydia?”

He hmms on the other end of the line, a mixture of avoidance and parental wisdom. Stiles can picture the glittery-eyed smirk he’s got on his face, the same look that means he’s passed some sort of test. “Scott told Melissa there was another label showing interest.”

“Scott… brought that up?”

“And Red’s father told me she had been asking him about contract law…”

“Do you guys have meetings or something…?” he asks, but he doesn’t listen to the answer. He’s too busy thinking about the implications of his band mates talking to their parents about this and he’s realizing their stony silence had been the same as his: thoughtful, terrified, nervous, hopeful… 

**

Scott is happily speaking Spanish with the local stagehand trying to man the camera while Boyd tries to get everyone positioned on the stage. Stiles still isn’t back from wherever he’d gone.

Derek catches Scott asking the stagehand about his family and hears bits and pieces of the answer. He turns all of his attention to their conversation when the stagehand asks Scott about his. He tells him that his mother is a nurse and that he doesn’t talk to his father and then he beams at the ragtag group of assembled roadies and band members getting into somewhat neat rows. “Y estas personas. Ellos son mis seres queridos.” 

Derek pretends he didn’t hear that, but it fills him with warmth. Derek admires the loving, friendly, welcoming side of Scott. 

“Where’s Stiles?” Boyd asks, tearing Derek’s attention away from the conversation. 

“Right here,” Stiles announces, jogging onto the stage. “Sorry.” He gives Boyd an apologetic grin. “The Sheriff wishes us all a happy last show.” He looks at Derek with a shy, endearing half-smile that makes Derek blush like an idiot.

Boyd rolls his eyes at him and shoves Stiles into place, an affectionate smirk on his face. “Kneel, we’re making a pretty picture here,” Boyd tells him, gesturing for Scott, Derek and Lydia to take their places around him. He has Royales sit in a clump in front of them before falling into a spot of his own. “Beautiful.”

“Serious picture, no smiling!” Allison announces. The stagehand waits for all the giggling to subside before taking a few shots of them. 

“Before we get to a smiley picture, I have a little announcement,” Allison says, stepping out of her spot so everyone can see her. “Royales, you just landed a national headlining tour.”

Everyone on stage starts cheering. Scott, Stiles and Lydia converge on Erica and the twins and Derek watches them all descend into tearful congratulations and thanks. 

Boyd’s carefully orchestrated tour picture falls into chaos – grinning, cheering, happy chaos. And Derek misses this already. Misses them. He can hear Allison’s bright laughter as Smokes and Royales drag her onto the ground and into their hug and he can see the pride glowing on Boyd’s face as he shakes his head and the techs start singing one of Royales’ songs. He remembers this exact moment from when they found out they were headlining for the first time too. This time, Derek’s just watching and smiling through the crippling feeling of impending loss, handling the waves of loneliness as they break against him. 

“Come here,” Stiles says, hand grasping his wrist and pulling him in. “We’re having a moment.”

**

“This is a very hard night for us because we’re not ready to say goodbye to this tour. This wouldn’t have been possible without you guys, so thank you.” The audience’s cheering is ear-splitting and Stiles loves it. He loves them. “This past month has meant so much to all of us. Give it up for our friends in Royales, everybody. It’s been an honor touring with them and falling in love with them. Erica, Aiden and Ethan, thank you.” 

This is all customary, this end of tour speech thing. Thank the circus, thank the fans. But Stiles means it more than he has in a long time. Means it so much that it’s getting harder and harder to keep talking.

“And thank you to our amazing crew. They’re our family and we love them very much. Thanks for making all of this happen every night, you ladies and gentlemen are the bee’s knees. Can we all give them one big thank you for the show they’ve helped us put on?” The lights flicker and strobe and swing out over the sea of people as they cheer, Danny’s doing. Stiles is starting to choke up a little.

“And last, but certainly not least, I present to you all the absolute most important people in my world, the lights of my life. Give it up for my wonderful, talented, beautiful band mates. Scott McCall, the best guitarist I know. Lydia Martin, the greatest drummer I’ve ever seen. And Derek Hale, God’s gift to bassists. And uh, thank you, from the bottom of all of our hearts, Derek, for helping us out. It’s been an absolute pleasure to have you back on stage with us. I’m sure all of you out there can agree.” He tries his best not to look at Derek for too long. Stiles turns his back to the audience, wiping sweat from his brow and scrubbing at his eyes as he breathes through the overwhelming urge to sob and the nerves that keep getting worse as the night goes on. Inhale, exhale, smile, swagger, keep going.

“Don’t forget about yourself, man. Give it up for our boy Stiles Stilinski,” Scott says into his mic, sending a warm grin his way. Stiles walks over and hugs him and kisses him on the cheek.

He looks up at Lydia who is standing on her drum platform, smiling down at him with a beautiful smile. She blows him a kiss and he catches it, puts it in his pocket to make her laugh. 

He heads back to his mic. “Hang tight, we’ll be right back.”And then the lights go to black.

They walk off the stage, guided by Greenberg, and are met with hugs. The twins box them al together in a group hug. Erica clings to him, her face wet against his neck. He’s trying to keep it together here, he can’t do this. When they break apart, Lydia grabs him. She stands on the tips of her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Love you, love you,” she says against the side of his head before releasing him. 

“Alright, saps, the piano’s set, out you go,” Greenberg commands. 

Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand as he passes him on the way back out to the stage. For courage. To remind himself what’s at stake.

It takes him a second to start talking again once the lights come back on. He can feel them all watching from the side of the stage. He can almost hear his own heart beating. He had been so sure of this earlier but now he is faced with the task of actually going through with it…

“This song is very important to me because it reminds me of someone I love. It’s not the happiest song in the world, but we’re not always the happiest people so…” 

His heart is pounding in his chest. His lungs feel like they’re shrinking. He can feel thousands of eyes on him. He backs up until his back hits the piano. He reaches out until Erica’s hand meets him halfway. The audience is the quietest they’ve been all night, as if they can sense something’s about to happen.

Erica knows. He’d told her that he wanted to put the ball in the label’s court. And that he wanted to make a gesture to Derek, to hold his hand out to him and tell him he’s willing to do anything to keep him around, even this. She hadn’t asked any questions when Stiles said this song had to be their last cover and he didn’t explain it. It’s not big or flashy or cheerful or celebratory. But it could be beautiful. She’d agreed easily. He’s still not even sure he wants to go through with it. But he has to. She squeezes his hand twice and he squeezes hers back three times. 

Stiles takes a deep and centering breath. “This is for him. The captain of my ship, the guy I would drown for, the only risk I want to take…” he finishes. The cheering is suddenly deafening. Erica squeezes his hand one last time and lets go to start playing. “This is Play Crack the Sky.”

**

Derek’s stomach threatens to fall right out of his body. Stiles, looking small as he sits on a chair with his acoustic guitar in his lap, sings his fucking heart out and Derek has to focus all his energy on not walking right out onto that stage…

Everyone backstage had audibly gasped and fallen into excited whispers while Derek just rocked on his feet. Holy shit. When they settle down to actually listen, Scott wraps his arm around Derek on one side and Lydia nudges her way under Derek’s arm on the other. He hugs them both. He can feel pride rolling off of them. 

Derek remembers a girl playing guitar outside of Paige’s dorm. Derek remembers kissing Stiles through this whole album. Derek remembers the CD Stiles had made him two days later: fifteen tracks, all of them Play Crack the Sky. Derek grins at the memory, at how annoyed (and enamored) he had been when the second and third and fourth track were all the same song and the realization that Stiles had gone to the extent of using a real physical CD just for that. He still has it somewhere in a box back in Beacon Hills, but this… this was better. A hundred times better. Stiles’ voice was desperate like the song, but hopeful. Mournful but shyly optimistic…

Stiles’ voice breaks a little a couple times, but he keeps going. Derek can feel the whole venue leaning on every sound Stiles makes, on every note. Erica’s voice is a smooth undercurrent to Stiles’ roughness. Her voice anchors it. They hold court over the audience and over everyone back stage. Derek remembers how nervous he felt when he told Stiles he loved him for the first time. He remembers being so scared to love him in the first place. He remembers having to learn the same lesson over and over again and he remembers the time it _finally stuck_ : Chicago, dark and empty on a snowy Thanksgiving, making out in a rented car. 

And here Stiles was, professing it to a sold out crowd on the last night of tour. Bravely, boldly, beautifully. Derek itches to touch him. He wants to grasp his shoulders and urge him on. His voice is shaking. He is captivating. Derek is in the palm of his hand.

“This story’s old but it goes on and—“ his voice falters and Erica picks up where he left off. He keeps strumming, staring at the floor and shaking his head as Erica sings. Derek knows the song so well that the sound of her voice alone in a sea of quiet where harmony is supposed to be sends shivers down his spine. 

But he’s back for “I spoke the words but never gave a thought to what they all could mean,” his voice stronger and more convicted. 

The audience sways in stunned quiet, their phones lit up, nothing but the softest hush of them singing along whispering through the venue. When Stiles and Erica end, their voices curl together and taper off into silence. Stiles’ guitar strings ring softly. Derek is glued to the spot.

Stiles stands and turns his back to the audience, keeps his face shielded from the side of the stage. He hands his guitar off to Bennett and hides his face in his hands while Erica moves in to hug him.

They’re supposed to wait until the lights go off before heading out, but Scott and Lydia run out anyway. Danny keeps the lights up. Scott tackles Stiles first, messing up his hair with one hand as he pounds his back with the other. Stiles drops his head down onto Scott’s shoulder and shakes. Lydia hops up and down next to them, grinning. When Scott lets go, she hugs him around the neck and kisses him all over. 

Stiles is blushing and sweating and grinning and Derek is immobile in the wings. Stiles looks to the side of the stage and makes eye contact with him. His eyes are wide and horrified, his skin pale and shining with sweat, his face is a question.

Derek wants to answer that question. He takes one step and then another. There isn’t an ounce of doubt anywhere in him as he strides toward Stiles. The crowd is deafening. Stiles is frozen. Derek wants to touch him and let him know how proud he is. He wants him to know how much he admires him, this brand new Stiles, this Stiles who just defied his label and took a risk that may or may not ruin his career, this Stiles who did all that and still had the support of his band, his friends. This Stiles who just did something monumental that will be written up as something political and bold but really he just did it for Derek… 

Derek grabs him by the face and pulls him into a world-shattering kiss. There’s no other way to tell him what he needs to say. There’s no better way to return the gesture. Derek loves him. Derek is loved by him. Stiles’ arms wrap around him and he kisses him back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The crowd goes wild. Honey, we’re home. The credits roll. What a conclusion.

**

“Man, this show is a circus,” Stiles laughs into the mic after messing up Bouyant _twice_. He kept looking over at Derek and that made him trip over his tongue every time. “You’re so distracting,” Stiles tells Derek. Derek grins at him.

In between songs, Stiles feels like sand is slipping through his fingers. He hadn’t had time to really think about what tonight meant. They hadn’t come to any conclusions about whether or not this was the last show or the last for awhile. But he knows now that they’re all thinking about the possibility of keeping at this. And as long as they’re thinking about it, this show could prove something to all of them. This show is _fun_ and they can’t stop bantering and laughing and smiling at each other. Stiles can’t stop wandering toward Derek to sing at him or to kiss him again or to just be near him. Scott and Lydia keep making fun of them. He feels like he belongs on this stage with them. Stiles believes in this. More than anything.

They play the usual encore songs, but bring Royales out to help them revive Girl Worth Fighting For (none of them could think of a better way to close the tour). They play it loosely and with more energy than it had been performed with in a long time. It’s like a party on stage and Stiles is watching it happen with a sense of longing as if he’s not actually there. Every second that passes brings with it another sense of loss. Each second slips past with no way to hold on, no way to relive it. It’s fun and it hurts. He doesn’t want this to be over.

When they finish the song, they bow and toss picks and drumsticks out into the audience. They converge in the middle of the stage for a big group hug. When they break apart, Stiles pulls Derek into one last kiss for the crowd and they all jog off together.

The green room door clicks shut behind them and the quiet feels insurmountable in comparison to what they just left. Stiles feels mute. He has so much to say to them but he feels sick to his stomach. Derek’s hand falls on his shoulder and steers him toward the couch where Scott and Lydia are and that’s when he realizes that he’d been wandering aimlessly. 

They look up at him in anticipation of something, but he’s not sure what. 

Allison bursts in and strides toward them, her face shifting between contained excitement and an open-mouthed grin as if she doesn’t even know where to start. Her hair is in a messy bun and she’s wearing a too-big “Moms for Scott” shirt from the merch booth and her face is shining with sweat.

“That was incredible, you guys… I just… I am so proud. I have never seen… I can’t believe it. That’s how you do a last show!” Her grin falters a little and her eyes start to gleam… Stiles is still trying so hard to speak but he can’t find the words. He can’t find a single fucking word. “Wow, I can’t believe that was your last show…” Allison spins to sit on the couch in between Scott and Lydia and hides her face in her hands. Stiles can’t even say something to comfort her when her shoulders start to shudder. 

Stiles want to run, wants to get some fresh air, wants to clear his head. He feels like he’s choking on blood. He feels like everything is falling apart and he’s just watching and he’s so sick of just watching. He’s about to turn when Derek wraps a solid arm around him. Allison is sobbing on the couch in front of him and Lydia’s face is pressed against her shoulder and Scott is absently rubbing her back and Stiles… well, Stiles needs to do something. He wants to run, but he needs to be here…

“I don’t want this to be the last show,” Stiles says, his voice surprisingly steady. And that feels so refreshing, just… speaking. Just saying what he wants. It feels like a continuation of sorts from earlier. It comes from the same place as singing Brand New and kissing Derek. And that was great, that was so good, that was the start of something terrifying and exciting. So he keeps talking. “I don’t want to break up. I want to keep going. I want to keep touring and making music, I want us to still be best friends, I want to keep Allison and I want to check out this new label you mentioned and I really… really, truly want to keep doing this.” 

He doesn’t even have a second to worry that they’re not with him on this because Scott immediately looks up and grins like it’s Christmas morning.

“I’m with Stiles,” Scott says softly. They make meaningful eye contact, Stiles smiling slowly. He’s so fucking glad that sentence came out of his mouth. It means so fucking much to him that Scott is with him. It means everything. 

Lydia slowly lifts her face toward him, searching him for a lie or uncertainty… Stiles can see that she wants this, he knows it for sure.

“Lyds, we’re gonna need you,” Stiles says with a lopsided grin.

She laughs, overjoyed, and stands up to hug him around the waist so she can tuck her head under his chin and that’s enough of an answer for him. 

Allison’s hands frame her face as she props her head up to stare at them, her brow furrowed and her mouth slack with fatigue. If she’s feeling half as overwhelmed as she looks, Stiles is surprised that she’s functioning at all… 

“What do you say, Ally? Will you keep us?” Scott asks. She turns her head toward him slowly. “Please?” Scott adds.

“I’ve been trying… for months…” she starts, voice thick and nasally. “Of fucking course I’ll keep you. Unbelievable assholes. You are all… unbelievable assholes.” 

**

“You feel like home,” Stiles mutters when Derek closes the door behind them. He giggles to himself and Derek tightens his grip on him to keep him upright. He’s so happily drunk and Derek is so happy to take care of him.

“Is that so?” Derek asks. 

It’s loud outside the door with everyone laughing and talking and singing along with the music. There’s hardly any free space in the suite’s living room between the whole tour and assorted European friends who had made the trip to see them and it’s way too hot with all that body heat. They’re all celebrating. They have so much to celebrate. Endless, countless things to be happy for…

Derek is celebrating too when he presses his mouth against Stiles’ and tastes bourbon on his tongue and the remnants of some sweet mixer on his lips.

“Mhm,” Stiles murmurs when Derek moves to kiss his cheek and his temple and his forehead… “Mmm tired,” he slurs, his hands curling against Derek’s side. “Like, so tired. Too tired for sex even.” 

Derek laughs and playfully pushes him back toward the bed. “But we’re celebrating.”

“Sleep is a sort of celebration,” he philosophizes, falling back against the mattress. He tugs at Derek until he joins him. 

“You’re getting old,” Derek tells him, his fingers working their way under the hem of Stiles’ shirt just enough to feel skin under his calloused fingertips. “Can’t handle your liquor.”

“Hey, not true. Do you know how stressful life has been for like… years? So stressful. Extra stressful. I deserve to sleep on the last night of tour.”

“Old man.”

Stiles scoffs and rolls into Derek. “You gonna be our bassist? Make things a little less stressful?”

“Yeah,” Derek answers, grinning against the top of Stiles’ head. “If you want.”

“I want. I want very much. They want too.” He waves vaguely toward the door. “Lydia told me she told you that earlier. Like before the show even, which begs the question…. Why didn’t she bring that up sooner? The whole not wanting to quit thing. Because I’ve been here thinking I’m going to have to convince these people…” he yawns and nuzzles his face into Derek’s shoulder. “Convince them… band.”

“Convince them band?” Derek repeats, laughing. 

“Stressful. Years. Very stressful. Gonna just sleep on my boyfriend here…”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Derek asks softly. 

“I mean, we’ll have to at least _pretend_ to date after that spectacular double coming out we pulled off,” Stiles says very seriously. 

“Fair.”

“Oh, Fair/Unfair. You wanna be my boyfriend, Derek Hale.” He’s drifting towards sleep...

“Fair.”

“And you want to be my bassist.”

“Also fair.”

“Great. Settled. Life is closer to perfect now,” he mumbles. He sighs and his body relaxes and he hums a little and falls asleep instantly. 

“Fair,” Derek whispers, tracing his thumb over Stiles’ cheek bone and down to his lips. 

Derek listens to him breathe and feels secure. He feels at home in here. He’s felt at home all tour. His empty house sits back in Beacon Hills and he’ll be back in it soon. But the Derek who bought that place and lived in it amongst stacks of packed boxes for months was not the Derek who would be returning. He’s terrified of what lies ahead but… he believes in it. He believes in the band and he believes in Stiles. It feels familiar and fresh all at once. It feels right. It feels even better than it did the first time around. He feels deserving and worthy this time. Of all of it. He’d put his time and effort in. He was lucky enough to get another shot.

Everything that had gone wrong for them could be boiled down to debilitating inaction.

A lapse in communication.

Some stupid fear of not having the same answers, not valuing the same things, not being on the same page. The fear of growth in opposite directions. 

Derek knows the bright white pain of consequence. He’s shouldered the full weight of unspoken words and unresolved stories. He knows that the fear of being on different pages is nothing compared to the reality of losing people.

And he’s glad that this time around, none of them are going to have to feel what he did. He’s glad that they’re still holding on and trying. He’s glad that he’ll be around for that. And he’s glad to have Stiles drooling on his shoulder. 

As he falls asleep, he’s picturing Stiles in his house. Stiles on the porch swing wearing his sweatpants and drinking out of his coffee mugs, making fun of him as he tends to the flower boxes… if he ever gets around to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You Remind Me of Home is a Ben Gibbard & Andrew Kenney song. 
> 
> Play Crack the Sky is obvs a Brand New song harhar you had to guess that was going to happen. >:3 
> 
> !!!!!! one more chapter?!?! i had intended for this to be the last one but i didn't want to lump post-tour into this chapter, so. D:
> 
> \-->[TUMBLR](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/)  
> (For status updates, "b-sides" and like idk me being emotional about Derek Hale)


	23. Looking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback at the beginning!
> 
> And we've made it. :)
> 
> A note on songs and playlists:  
> [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/upinsmokes/play-crack-the-sky)!  
> [noneedforhystereks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/noneedforhystereks)'s totally perfect 8tracks [playlist](http://8tracks.com/anaisnt/need-you-like-water-in-my-lungs-play-crack-the-sky). <3
> 
> If you have any songs you like to listen to while reading, you should absolutely tell me about it. ;)

April, 2011.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

Both the Sheriff’s cruiser and his SUV were in the driveway when Derek got there so he parked his car a little down the street and walked and climbed up onto the bit of roof below Stiles’ window. Ever since his father caught on to what was going on, Derek wasn’t allowed over too late. But he needed this. His skin was buzzing still, his head was still foggy. His heart was shoving poisonous panic throughout his body with each sluggish beat. He needed to see Stiles. His light was off but he needed to see him, he had to be there.

He crouched in front of the window, steadied himself with one hand on the tile below him and knocked. Stiles’ face loomed through the dark seconds before the window slid open and a hand shots out to grab him.

“Keep it down,” Stiles whispered. “What are you doing—“

Derek cut him off with a kiss and backed him up toward the bed. He needed him. Fuck, he needed to touch his skin and taste him. He needed to slowly strip the sleep-warm flannel pajama pants off of him and see every inch of his body revealed. He needed this.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles repeated, shoving him away. He narrowly escaped Derek’s second attempt to grab him to go turn on the desk lamp. “Not that I don’t enjoy that, but aren’t you supposed to be out with Paige?”

Derek sat heavily on Stiles’ bed and looked up at him with what he hoped was a seductive smile. “Does it matter?”

Stiles squinted at him and bent to look more closely at him. “You have lipstick all over your neck.”

Derek shrugged. “And now I’m here. So.”

Stiles shook his head and looked away to hide his reaction. “You can’t come to me to round the rest of the bases you two didn’t get to on your dates, that’s fucking terrible. You’re an asshole,” he said, sounding upset but not angry.

“That’s not what this is.” It wasn’t. It really wasn’t. This was Derek needing Stiles to make sense of things. Things like why Stiles made his entire body light up and sing while Paige just made him itch for something else. She was so beautiful and so good but Derek always felt so empty. He’d pictured Stiles while Paige kissed his neck and that was the only reason why she found anything to _grab onto_ when her hand slid over the fly of his jeans. Stiles’ lips and tongue and teeth and mouth and the low sounds he made in the back of his throat and the light stubble… Fuck. 

Stiles sighed and sat next to Derek on the bed. Derek’s hands were instantly on him, running up his thighs and seeking out the heat of the bare skin under his shirt—

“Derek,” Stiles protested, his hand falling on one of Derek’s to stop him. “You’re so fucked up.”

Derek leaned into him and kissed his neck and licked a stripe from his Adam’s apple up to behind his ear. Stiles groaned. He knew how to do that, he knew how to make Stiles groan. He’d spent half an hour once trying to figure out how to get Paige’s toes to curl when sliding his fingers inside her and that had ended in nothing but embarrassment for both of them. But Stiles. Derek knew Stiles’ body and loved it. 

Stiles fell back against the mattress and pulled Derek with him. He was already hard and Derek’s mouth was watering. He wanted to get him to sweat and curse and come…

“I can’t,” Stiles said, sounding like he very much could. He pushed Derek’s face away from his neck and used his legs to shove him off of him. “Her lipstick is all over you and you’re just… weird, I can’t.”

“I want you.”

“You can want me after a shower on another day, man, I can’t do this.”

Derek felt empty. He started to roll away from him to get back on his feet, but Stiles wrapped a hand around his arm. “Talk to me,” he begged. “What’s going on? Are we okay? Are you okay?” Stiles asked.

“Fair/Unfair?”

Stiles nodded.

“You wish I wasn’t dating Paige,” Derek whispered. Stiles slid his hand down Derek’s arm until their fingers were tangled together.

“Fair,” he whispered back. His face looked soft and sad in the dim yellow light his desk lamp cast. “You wish you weren’t dating Paige.”

Derek walked right into that. He didn’t know, he truly didn’t. “She’s a great girl.”

Stiles lifted an eyebrow. That wasn’t an answer.

“Fair,” Derek confessed, and the word felt like a razor blade between his teeth. “You feel guilty about us.”

“Fair. You don’t feel guilty about us at all.”

Derek had trouble decoding his tone. It felt accusatory. It felt like Stiles thought he was stringing one or both of them along but Derek didn’t know if that was really the case, he really didn’t. He was so fucking lost and the only time he felt found was when Stiles was around. He did not feel guilty about Stiles. He did not feel uncertain about him. It was just everything else. “Fair.”

Stiles’ mouth flattened into a straight, humorless line and he shook his head and looked away from him and toward the ceiling. Derek needed to get his eyes back on him, he needed to feel afloat in them.

“You’re in love with me,” Derek whispered, wishing he was whispering it into his hair or against his mouth or with his lips pressed to the inside of his thigh, anywhere but from this great distance…

Stiles let out a cruel laugh and tore his hand away from Derek and covered his face with both hands. His body trembled as he rubbed his eyes in rough, rigid movements. “Fair,” he said, but his voice sounded hard and tired and furious. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you fucking dare be sorry,” Stiles said, sitting up suddenly. “But you need to go. You need to go now, okay?”

Derek sat up and nodded even though he didn’t understand. He wanted to taste the sweat that pooled in between his collar bones and hear him moan. He wanted to love him and be loved by him. It was within reach. 

“Go,” Stiles repeated when Derek hesitated at the window. 

“You didn’t repeat my question…” Derek said softly. Derek wanted to get a second chance to answer. _You’re in love with me._ Fair. So Fair. Absolutely Fair. 

“Goodnight, Derek.” There’s softness edging into his voice. 

He had one foot out on the roof and the other in Stiles’ room and he just needed to know… “If you were in my position, what would you do?” Derek asked.

“I would choose you.”

“Even if—“

“I would choose you every single time.” He crossed to the window and put his hands on Derek’s face and kissed him softly. “Now go.”

“Goodnight,” Derek whispered, struck by how soft his hands were and the way the shadows made Stiles’ face look so… perfect.

“Goodnight.”

 

November 14th.  
Madrid, Spain.

Stiles wakes up the next morning to chaos. He assumes. His phone is off and somewhere else, but he’s probably right. Derek is asleep next to him, face smushed into the pillow, sweater bunched up around his waist, still in his jeans. Stiles wants to just curl against that chest of his and go back to sleep but just… just knowing that shit is happening at a pace he can’t even fathom pushes him out of bed and toward the living room.

And what he sees out there looks nothing like chaos at all. Allison is on the couch in her pajamas, her laptop open on her lap and with ever-present portfolio beside her. She’s wearing glasses and an easy early morning smile. The light filtering in from the window catches in the empty liquor bottles and casts pretty reflections on the walls.

“Morning,” Allison murmurs without looking up from her laptop. She continues typing. 

“How fucked am I?” Stiles asks, dropping into the closest arm chair. 

She keeps typing but spares him a glance. “Have you seen anything yet?”

“No. Phone’s off.”

“Well, what are you most worried about?” she asks, distracted.

“Getting sued for breach of contract and tanking our career.”

She waves him off with one hand, types with the other. “It’ll be fine.”

“Will it?”

“Yeah. Look.” She picks up her phone, finds something and tosses it at him. Stiles tilts his head at a picture from the second Derek pulled away from their on-stage kiss – Stiles is wide-eyed and pale with shock, lips parted in a question that Derek’s grin is answering. 

“That’s from a newspaper in Madrid. The article talks about how historic that kiss was. Swipe left.”

Stiles swipes left and the next picture is the one from the balcony in Paris. They’re both shrouded in soft gray light, their eyes locked as they share soft smiles. There’s a French caption on it.

“It says congratulations to the lovers,” Allison says softly. “That’s the happiest you’ve looked in a picture since before he left, you know? Swipe left.”

So he does and it’s a screen cap of a bunch of celebrity tweets congratulating them and it’s… bizarre. Really, truly. 

“So…” Stiles says slowly, looking up at her.

“So? That’s not even the tip of the iceberg. We’re going to be okay, you’re going to be okay. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m handling it, don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay, good. Things are just starting to get insane, but we can handle it. Go get your boy up.”

“Not my boy,” Stiles says, smirking as he forces himself to stand.

“Totally your boy,” she says, turning her laptop to face him so he can see a huge picture of them kissing. “We have to check out and get to breakfast, go get ready.” Calling it breakfast is a mere formality. The clock on the wall says it’s already past noon. 

Stiles pauses at the door and turns back toward her. “Yo, Allison, are you proud of me?” he asks.

“Make me proud,” was the last thing Allison had said to him when she dropped him off at rehab. She had a fake smile on and bags under her eyes. She had been exhausted beyond measure, she had done everything to keep their careers afloat and his secret safe and she’d sacrificed so much of herself for them. She always has. This morning, she has bags under her eyes and she’s been exhausted all tour and she’s done everything for them still… but her smile this morning? That’s not a smile a person could fake. 

“The proudest I could possibly be,” she answers. 

**

Derek wakes up alone in bed to the sound of the door opening. He squints up at Stiles and waits for the fall out…

“Hey.” Stiles smiles and Derek smiles back. He closes the door behind him with a soft click and leans against it, watching Derek with a somewhat unbelieving look on his face. 

“Hi,” Derek says. Stiles shakes himself out of it and walks until he’s close enough to flop back into bed.

He curls up against Derek’s side and takes a deep breath against his neck. “Hi,” he mumbles. “We have to get ready to go soon.”

Derek squeezes his arm between Stiles and the mattress so he can hold him. So he can really grasp that this person has chosen him again. So he can keep him there. Because he’s going to keep him there for now and he’s going to keep him as long as he can. Derek is going to choose him again and again and again. Every time. 

He listens to his breath and he basks in the morning. It’s quiet and warm and bright. It’s the first morning of an era, Derek knows that much. He can sense it. 

“We look really good together,” Stiles says softly after awhile.

“Hm?”

“Are you excited?” He lifts his head and props himself up on his elbow to look down at Derek. “Like, are you ready to write songs and argue with me in a studio again? And are you ready for all the shit you used to hate? Are you going to hate it again? It doesn’t seem like you’ve been hating it… but if you hate it, can you please talk to me about it this time? Us. Talk to us. I think we can do this if we try—“

Derek silences him by pulling him into a quick kiss. He lets his head drop back to the pillow and smiles up at him. “Good morning to you too.”

“Good morning.” He bites his lip but smiles anyway and shrugs a little. “But… do you think you’re ready?”

“I am.”

“Are you sure?”

Derek nods. Stiles grins, leans forward and kisses him as if he just couldn’t resist the temptation.

**

Breakfast is a lazy affair, marked by tired eyes and soft conversation. It’s the first day they’re allowed to really show how worn down they are. It’s hard to tell who’s hungover and who’s simply exhausted, but most of them probably fall under both categories. 

Stiles takes it in quietly, his knee pressed against Derek’s leg, Scott pressed against his other side at the cramped table. He’s definitely exhausted, but content. He takes note of how easily Allison laughs at everything Scott says and how lovingly she smiles at the kids in Royales. He listens in on the roadies and shares a knowing smirk with Jackson when Danny let’s slip that he’ll be doing lighting for Royales’ tour. 

The roadies head out first. They make their rounds, hug everyone, promise to see each other later on and look forward to future tours together. When Danny kisses Ethan goodbye, everyone boos them good-naturedly. And then it’s just the bands and Allison and Boyd. 

“So can we get backstage passes?” Lydia asks Erica, petting her hair. “I’m talking VIP all-access passes…”

“Depends… Which date?” Erica asks.

“All of them! We’re going to need to come check up on you kids, make sure you’re behaving.”

“Car’s here,” Boyd tells them, and he sounds a little sad. Stiles’ stomach sinks. 

Erica frowns and pitches forward to hug Lydia. “Yes, yes, of course,” she tells her. 

Stiles claims the next hug from Erica while everyone else crowds around the twins. “Proud of you,” he says and kisses the side of her head. 

“Proud of you too, Stilinski,” she coos, squeezing him. “Maybe you can open for us this time around, huh?”

Stiles pinches her side. “Down.”

“Actually,” she says, pulling away with a devious smile. “I have a demo to send you that I think you’ll love. If you don’t mind.”

“Send away.”

She grins and kisses him on the cheek before getting pulled into Scott’s bear hug. “It’s like the last day of camp!” she exclaims, sounding a little teary as she hugs him back. 

Stiles hugs the twins and congratulates them and they all boo when they catch Boyd and Erica sharing a passionate goodbye kiss. Boyd flips them off and leads them out the door. 

And then it’s just them. The restaurant is full of clinking plates and low conversation and servers bustling around, but it’s quiet. So, so, so quiet. The quietest it’s been in what feels like months.

They look at Allison expectantly. “Hm?” she murmurs, looking up from her third cup of coffee with a relaxed, sleepy expression. 

“Don’t we have a lot to talk about?” Lydia prompts.

“Oh. We’ll talk back in LA. But uh, we have a meeting with the label in a couple days, then we’ll have a sit down with Kira at Vulpine Lupine when Lydia’s back from Hawaii.” She finishes off by flashing a smile at all of them and goes back to her mug.

“And what about these two?” Scott asks, pointing at Stiles and Derek. Stiles tries to suppress a smile as he steals a glance at Derek.

“What about them? Press is going insane, they took down Twitter last night, blah blah. Very big news item. We’ll deal with it later.”

“Anything we need to do or say?” Lydia asks.

She shrugs. “Tweet some support if you want. We’ll talk back home before the interviews start rolling in.”

Derek’s hand wraps around Stiles’ knee under the table and Stiles really wants to lean over and kiss him on the cheek but he doesn’t know if he should. He elbows him gently in the side and smiles at him instead. 

Allison finishes her coffee as Boyd drags his feet back to the table and sits. “Our car should be here soon,” he sighs. 

“Thank you, Boyd,” Allison says, her voice carrying more weight than what his announcement called for. They share familiar, loving smiles and Stiles gets it. He feels like he’s looking at his parents at the end of a stressful family vacation. They made it out alive, they did it together, everyone’s in one piece… 

Stiles sighs and falls against Derek’s side. He noses his way under his jaw and lets his eyes slip closed when Derek wraps an arm around him. 

“Gross,” Boyd mumbles. Stiles flips him off and goes in for the kiss.

Everyone boos.

**

November 16th.  
Los Angeles, CA.

Stiles’ hands shake as he unlocks the door to his old house. Derek’s silent behind him. God, this is weird. He nudges the door open with his hip and leads them inside.

Allison had hired someone to do the packing. Without a new place to send his shit, he’d just had it shipped to the Sheriff’s. (“How many guitars do you need, exactly?” his father had asked him when the stuff showed up. “I mean, need and want are two different things,” Stiles had answered.) He just had a few things to tackle on his own. Well, not on his own. They’d gotten back to LA after midnight the day before and totally crashed at Scott’s. He’d woken up that morning in the guest room with Derek curled around him and then they met with the label and parted ways. Sat through some media training. Did some interviews. Knocked out at Scott’s again. Dropped Lydia off at the airport and now they’re here. Together. They’re like… _together_.

“Nice place,” Derek says. And yeah, it’s pretty nice. Nice big entry way, well-lit, gleaming wood floors. Stiles never did the place justice. If Derek had seen it with its unimpressive furniture and total lack of interior design, he might not be so complimentary.

“Yeah.”

Stiles feels cagey as he makes his way into the kitchen. He yanks the fridge open and it’s just as empty as when he left it – nothing molding or rotting in there. The freezer contains half empty handles of vodka and gin… leftovers from his night with Danny. He cringes even though that feels like it was years ago. 

Derek leans against the island while Stiles takes a quick look in all the cabinets and drawers. They’d always been mostly empty anyway. He hardly lived here at all. He’d have liked to, maybe. Seeing Derek in it gave it a little something it always lacked… 

Warmth. A sense of home. Something.

Comfort. Derek’s presence is fortifying. On stage, in private, and especially at the meeting with the label. He hadn’t said much but his hand on his knee had kept Stiles’ voice from shaking. He held hands with Lydia under the table and looked to Scott every so often to find him looking back. Allison and her father were calm and collected. Argent had slipped something in about the lawyers early in the meeting and that had pretty much been that. No breached contract. Leaving on good terms. Congratulations. Thank you for making us a lot of money. We wish you the best in your future endeavors. Stiles got the sense that there had been more under the surface, more conversations between label and management before they even landed… but he was fine not knowing.

And before they left the room, Derek leaned over and kissed Stiles right in front of all of them. Poetic justice. Stiles slipped him some tongue for his own justice and held his hand on the way out. Because yeah, that was a thing they could do now. Just… hold hands. Wherever they want to. Whenever they want to. 

Stiles clears his throat and cocks his head back toward where they came. Derek follows him into the living room. It’s clean and empty. They head up the stairs.

“This is where I was standing when you told me you quit the band,” Stiles says softly when they get to the landing.

Derek’s hands are on his hips instantly, just a touch of comfort. He doesn’t apologize and Stiles is glad. He hadn’t been looking for an apology. He’d just been cleansing the air of the sharp hurt that had never stopped echoing… 

Stiles pokes his head into all the empty rooms on the second floor before they head to the master suite. Derek leans in the doorway and Stiles heads over to the window seat. It’s a weird contrast to the image that’s stuck with him for years. Stiles standing in the doorway, Lydia crying on the window seat, Scott sitting somewhere on the floor in between in shocked silence…

Stiles smiles and sees his reflection in the window before he turns back around.

“I hated this place,” he says, crossing back to Derek. 

Derek pushes off from the doorframe to free his arms. Stiles sinks into them easily and this feels better than every cheap fuck he got in this room. It feels better than every desperate, lonely thing he’d ever done in this house.

“Is it weird that I’m here?” Derek asks.

“Nah, it’s kind of nice.”

Stiles looks up in time to see his questioning face. “It’s just… it’s nice to see you in here. I don’t know why, but it is.”

Derek smiles and kisses him. And that’s a pretty chaste way to christen a place, but it’s enough. Stiles hopes the next people who live there will be happier than he was.

They leave with a couple more boxes that the movers had forgotten and Stiles takes the key off his key ring to give to Allison to give to the agent later. It’s final. And it’s good. Derek’s hand is on his thigh as he drives to Scott’s to pick him up for dinner at Allison’s. And that’s good too. 

No matter how weird it all feels – leaving the label, seeing his empty house with Derek in it, _everything_ — everything feels right. 

**

November 21st.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

Derek had cancelled his flight so he could drive up with Stiles instead. After a week of meetings and errands and press and paparazzi and evenings spent bundled up in Scott’s beach house, it was nice to be alone on the drive through the heart of California with him. 

They spent the first hour of the drive passionately arguing over albums that they had never discussed and building the perfect driving playlist on Derek’s phone. They spent the second hour listening to that playlist in peace. They stopped at a gas station and spent too much time picking out snacks and coffee. No one recognized them even though, as Stiles pointed out, pictures of them from LA were splashed all over the front page of a tabloid that was on clear display by the cash register. (“Trouble in Paradise Already? Smokes for Harris frontman Stiles Stilinski and recently returned bassist Derek Hale argue outside a restaurant.” More like Stiles had been trying to coax him to make out with him in the backseat of Allison’s car while they waited for everyone else to come out. Derek had refused.)

It’s late when they pull into Beacon Hills. Stiles is asleep, using Derek’s jacket as a blanket, and Derek can’t stop smiling.

“Hey,” Derek says, shaking his shoulder when they get to an infamously lengthy intersection. Stiles stirs and blinks at their surroundings. “Did you want to stop by your dad’s?”

“Nah, let’s go home,” he mutters. Derek watches him snuggle further into the jacket and looks back at the road when the light turns green.

Home. 

When they are _home_ , they drop their bags in the living room and Derek kisses him. Derek leads him through to the kitchen and ends up backing him up against the kitchen table so he can kiss him some more. Everything that had happened the last time they were together in this room led to now… They kiss all the way down the hallway and into the bedroom. 

Stiles laughs when his back hits the mattress and slides his hands into Derek’s hair and he tastes like coffee and corn nuts, which… not a great combination, but it’s Stiles. In his bed. In his house. Laughing and kissing him back after a long drive.

Stiles paws at Derek’s stomach and pulls his shirt up, trails his fingers up his ribs and hooks his leg around Derek’s to keep him close. 

This would be a great time to tell him how much he loves him. This would be a great time to tell him that he knows this is going to get hard after the high of getting back together wears off and that he’s all in anyway. This would be the perfect time to tell him he’ll fight tooth and nail to keep him and that all he needs for the motivation to keep working is this… laughing in bed, tasting stale coffee on his perfect lips, his hot hands on his skin. He wants to tell him that he’s enough, more than enough, and that he never hadn’t been.

“C’mon, come back to me,” Stiles mutters after biting his bottom lip lightly. 

“I’m here.”

“Get out of your head, then,” he says, giving him a lopsided smile as he reaches for Derek’s fly. “Want you,” he breathes. “Been in a car with you all—oh hello—“ Derek laughs and keeps pressing his hips down against him. “—all day. And I just,” Derek mouths at his neck and his breath catches in his throat. “I just want you,” he finished distractedly.

“Want you too.” 

They undress each other slowly and carefully, taking in every new inch of skin as if it’s being revealed to them for the first time. There’s no threat of anyone knocking on the door, there’s nothing on the schedule to worry about. It’s just them. Alone and comfortable for the first time in years.

**

November 23rd.

Stiles is reading in the kitchen with a piece of bagel hanging out of his mouth when the doorbell rings. He sets the book down and tries to finish chewing on his way to the door. Not too many people know that Stiles is back in town, so whoever it was must be looking for Derek. 

When he pulls the door open, he’s ready to tell them that Derek’s helping his sister in San Francisco and won’t be back until later, but a shock of red hair and Lydia’s big brown eyes make him choke on his half-swallowed food.

“Idiot,” she drawls before flashing a smile and pounding him on the back.

“You’re lost, Hawaii’s down south,” Stiles says once he’s stopped coughing. He moves to let her in and bends a little to grab her suitcase when she launches herself at his chest for a rib-crushing hug. “What’s wrong, Lyds?” he asks softly, hugging her back.

“I couldn’t relax, I just wanted to get back to work, I just missed you guys and I needed to see you and Thanksgiving is tomorrow and it’d be shitty of me to spend that away from family so here I am,” she says in a frantic stream of breathless syllables. 

He pulls her and her suitcase inside without her ever letting go of him. “Breakfast?” he asks. She nods and sniffs against his chest and Stiles fights the urge to laugh at her.

When she peels herself off of Stiles, he leads her into the kitchen. “By breakfast I hope you know I mean cereal or a bagel or something.”

She rolls her eyes and starts rummaging through cupboards. “You two need to do some shopping,” she mumbles. “Where’s Derek?”

“Laura has him helping set up an installation in the city.” 

She nods distractedly as she settles on a box of cereal and helps herself to it wordlessly. Stiles makes her coffee in the meantime. 

“I’m trying to get Scott to fly in tonight, sent him flight information and everything. You should text him too,” Lydia says meekly once she’s sat down. 

Stiles pulls his phone out and sends a very simple “get your ass on a plane, brother” text and sets it on the table. “Done. How was Hawaii?”

“Beautiful, nice, lonely. I should have planned it for December instead, let myself come down from tour first…”

“You missed us that much?”

“I got so close to losing my boys and then I didn’t. I think I still need to convince myself that it’s real.”

“It’s real.”

She smiles. “How’s Derek?”

“Great.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yeah.”

“You guys are doing okay? The week of press didn’t kill you?”

“We’re doing great. Press was fine.”

She nods and lets out a shuddery breath. “You need to take care of yourself, okay? I am not prepared for another emergency with you, do you understand?”

Stiles is genuinely surprised by the turn in the conversation. “I… okay, I am taking care of myself.”

“But you weren’t before he came back, you really weren’t and you can’t tell me that you were. I knew you weren’t… you know, using again, but… You had us so fucking scared, Stiles. Derek can’t be a band-aid, you have to be better. We need you better with or without him. I know you love him and I know you guys work well together but you need to just… I can’t see you in a hospital bed like that again, okay? And I don’t know what’ll happen to you if it doesn’t work _again_ , do you understand? I need to know what’ll happen if things go to shit, I need to know what to expect, and I don’t want to expect a funeral, alright? Do you fucking get it?”

Stiles’ mouth is open a little and Lydia’s eyes are welling up and she looks furious and his heart is pounding in his chest. 

“I do, I get it,” Stiles says finally. 

She nods curtly and looks away to rub at her eyes. Her face is stern when she turns back to him. 

“Is this what you were thinking about the entire week?”

“That and… Scott would never forgive himself if this doesn’t work out, I still don’t think he’s even forgiven himself for last summer anyway but he’s closer now than he has been. And god, Allison would be a wreck if we didn’t work out. She believes in us so much, I don’t want to let her down. And you know, I think even if we had quit and I got into all the schools I applied to and ended up going to one of them, I wouldn’t be happy and I wouldn’t be happy running away to Paris and I wouldn’t be happy traveling all the time by myself and I wouldn’t have the heart to start or join a new band, so what the fuck would I do? And what the fuck would happen to you? And Derek, god, he was straight on the road to being a soulless lawyer and he would have been living in Beacon Hills probably and he’d be constantly living with the memory of his dad and… god, that hurts. I just… Stiles, you guys are total assholes but you’re my life and I just want to keep doing this shit together and I don’t want to have to worry about you guys from afar, so if that means coming back from vacation early just so I can see all of us in the same space again then so be it. Hawaii can wait.”

Stiles whistles and gets back up from the table. “How long have you been holding that in?” He opens a cupboard and starts digging around.

“All tour, to varying degrees of madness.”

He closes his hand around the neck of a bottle of whiskey. “I’m going to spike your coffee and we’re going to have a great day, how’s that sound?”

“Perfect.” 

“We’re going to be fine, I promise,” Stiles tells her as he pours a shot or so worth into her mug. He kisses her on the forehead and she takes a deep breath. “And you look very tan.”

She laughs. “Thank you.”

A little while later finds them looking over an email full of real estate listings from Allison. Mostly, that means they’re laughing at the annotations Allison has added to all the properties. (“Fixer upper?????? WHAT?” “Cape Cod Style, have they been to Cape Cod?” “Stiles, no. Nope. No.” “What is this freaky little town let me find you a place in SF at least please?”) 

Scott finally texts them both back right as Lydia’s launching into her argument in favor of a little place in SF that Allison had tacked on at the end. “Alriiiiiiiiiiiiiiight I’m packing, shut up. :)” And that shuts her up about the apartment too. 

When Derek gets home that night, he has Scott with him and a relaxed set to his shoulders. He’s laughing at something Scott’s saying as they head back to the guest room. He kisses Stiles in greeting as he passes and Lydia’s face goes all soft and loving about it. 

“If we’re going to be a bed and breakfast for our wayward band mates, we’re going to need a bigger place,” Derek says when he and Scott come into the kitchen. He picks Lydia up in a hug easily and Scott hugs Stiles before joining him in leaning against the counter. 

“We, huh?” Stiles asks him. 

Derek pecks him on the cheek. “Yeah, we.”

**

November 24th.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

Derek watches with baited breath as his mother and Stiles come face to face for the first time in years. He lets out a sigh of relief when she pulls him into a motherly hug and kisses him on the cheek.

“We missed you,” she says soft enough that Derek’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that. Stiles squeezes and mumbles a emotion-laden, “Missed you too.” 

Scott struts up to the house, burdened with bags full of drinks, and Derek can see how charmed his mother is by him as usual. She kisses him on the cheek and shoves him lovingly into the house in front of her while she asks where his mother is.

Derek kisses Stiles on the porch and curls his fingers into the soft fabric of his sweater. “Told you she doesn’t hate you,” Derek says when Stiles pulls away to look at him. 

He rolls his eyes and hugs Derek tighter in a gesture Derek assumes is meant to hide his own relief. 

Derek watches the Sheriff’s car bounce up the driveway followed by the Martins’ SUV and he smiles against the side of Stiles’ head. 

This house was built for foot traffic. It was built to contain loud storytelling and carols around the grand piano and bustling family dinners. It was built for holidays and out of town visitors and outdoor summer weddings. Before his father had died, he’d host big Labor Day weekend barbeques for the people at the firm and Derek had lost count of how many birthday parties, baby shower and anniversaries had taken place there. When his father died, his mother could hardly bear filling the place with sound as if she was afraid to lose the echo of her husband’s voice. But it had been the only place big enough for the band and everyone who came along with it. They spent every holiday together until Derek left and then it had fallen quiet again. This suited it better.

“Get a room!” the Sheriff calls once he steps out of his parked car. Melissa laughs as she slides out of the passenger seat. Lydia stomps her way up to the house in front of her parents who look like they’ve just concluded an argument. She doesn’t say anything as she passes them but he hears her and his sisters squealing with delight just inside the front door.

The Sheriff pats Derek on the shoulder and ruffles Stiles’ hair as he passes. Melissa runs her hand across his shoulder and flicks Stiles on the nose before being greeted warmly by Derek’s mother. Stiles reluctantly pulls away from Derek, grinning, and hugs Lydia’s mother before escorting her inside. Her father claps Derek on the shoulder and starts talking football.

The inside of the house smells like golden-skinned turkey and heaps of potatoes and pies and Laura’s autumnal decorating brings with it a hint of cinnamon. It’s loud and full and warm and Stiles is _here_ , getting teased by Cora and begging Laura for intervention. Scott is here helping his mom set the table. Lydia is here having what looks to be a gossipy conversation with Derek’s grandmother and uncle. 

The house had been built for family and friends who became family, and it hadn’t felt this right in years.

**

December 2nd.  
San Francisco, CA.

The label, if one could call it that, occupies the top floor of a building in Telegraph Hill. Aside from stunning views of the bay out a wall of windows and exposed brick walls, there’s not much to it. Stiles loves it. Allison herds them from the elevator deeper into the uninterrupted space and chatters nervously about the benefits of smaller labels as if they aren’t already in love with the idea of it.

There’s a girl wearing leggings and an oversized neon pink sweater truly rocking out to something on her giant headphones while painting a non-brick segment of wall. 

“Kira?” Allison calls, her voice echoing.

She keeps painting and bobbing her head in time to her music as they get closer. Allison stops a few feet away from her and stares. “Kira?”

Kira’s eyes slide her way and she jumps, yips and falls over. “Oh my god, oh my god, it’s already 2 isn’t it? I’m so sorry, I lost track of time, holy shit,” she starts babbling as she gets to her feet and tears off her headphones. She extends a paint splotched hand toward Allison, cringes and pulls it back slowly. “Hi, this is the worst first impression, I’m so sorry.”

Stiles is grinning too much to verbalize it, but he totally disagrees.

“You’re so cute,” Lydia says, fighting down a laugh. 

“Oh god, you’re Lydia Martin. I’m going to go… wash my hands and try to get it together, there are snacks in the fridge, help yourself. Oh God.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Allison turns back to face them with a big grin on. “So that’s Kira.”

They’re sitting on a couple couches when Kira returns. The front of her sweater is wet in patches where she tried to get some of the paint off, but she at least looks calmer.

“I had a whole different outfit but you’ve already seen me like this so… oh well. I’m sorry I seem so unprepared, I’m really not. I am so prepared for this meeting but now I’m all nervous and…” She looks at Allison who quirks an eyebrow at her. “And I’m glad you could all make it,” she course-corrects, confidence seeming to bubble up through her radiant smile. 

For the next hour she gives them an extremely detailed outline of what she plans on doing to grow the label and how she wants to run it. By the time she gets to talking about Smokes for Harris, her legs are curled up under her on the couch and she’s sparkling with excitement. She talks about capitalizing on their existing popularity and using their recent surge in press attention to catapult them onto a new path with a brand new, self-dictated image (“if you guys want, I mean, your current image works well, but I want you guys to be happy”). She concludes her pitch with a nervous tremor and a modest last stand.

“I just… I know this is, I mean, this would be a huge risk. But I love music and I love your band and I have a lot of heart. I have backers and support from people who know a lot more than I do and I am not afraid to ask them for guidance. My mom’s been with Columbia for so long and if everything goes to shit, I’m sure they’d be happy to pick up your contract or you know, anyone, considering…. You guys are… well, I just don’t plan on things going to shit anyway. So uh… I guess that’s the best I can offer you. I love music and hopefully this doesn’t fail.”

Stiles exchanges looks with his band. 

“Obviously, you guys can take as long as you need to decide or you can ask me more questions, or we could set up more meetings if you want. I know you have a lot of things to think about and decide on…” She continues to nervously prattle on while Stiles assesses Scott’s hopeful smile and the gleam of adventure settling over Lydia’s features. Derek slips his arm off the back of the couch to wrap his hand around Stiles’ knee. “… I heard Universal is looking at you guys, and they’re so massive, you’d have sooo much financial support there, way more than here but I uh…”

“We’re in,” Stiles says to keep her from dragging herself further into a hole. 

Her mouth drops open in shock. “No, no, you guys should sleep on it and talk it over and Allison, you can go over the profits and budget stuff with them more closely if you want. You’re definitely not just… in.”

Allison looks around at them and they all just nod.

“Nah, they seem pretty in.”

“But… What if I _ruin_ your careers? You guys really should think about it. And we won’t be up and running for months. I can’t even get you guys into a studio for awhile, I am not ready to take on your band yet, so think about it, please.”

“How about,” Stiles says, leaning forward. “We’re in. You do what you have to do. Let us know when you’re ready for us. We’ll consider it a break.”

“You guys are idiots—OH my God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that like… Allison, talk some sense into them.”

“These are not sensible people, Kira,” Allison says. “We’ll talk details as they come up, these kids need a break anyway.”

Kira gapes at all of them. “I am totally out of my league here.”

“Shh, don’t show weakness,” Allison scolds gently. “I showed weakness once and now they think we’re friends or something.”

Kira “heh”s nervously. 

**

December 12th.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

Christmas is in a couple weeks, meaning Stiles has been crashing at Derek’s place for close to a month. Derek doesn’t want him to go, so he never asks if he’s looking for a place. He’s reluctant to live by himself again and this month of co-habitation has been so nice… The first couple of weeks had been full of Scott and Lydia and when they left, they spent a lot of time trying to catch up on their two lost years. They’d had sex in every room, they’d fucked burning confessions out of each other on the dying breath of orgasms on every possible surface. 

And even now, Derek feels jelly-limbed and can taste Stiles thick on his tongue while he tackles his stacks of still-packed boxes in the guest bedroom. Stiles is reading out in the living room, his body all soft and relaxed just how Derek left him, probably. 

He tears open a box that had been shoved in the back corner of the closet behind an old electric bass. He digs through even more things he’d forgotten about – statistics textbooks and old notebooks from classes. They’re all from that first semester of school after he quit. He passively flips things over to see if there’s anything important and then his fingers call on a familiar soft leather spine. 

Shit. Derek pulls it out and shoves the box away and yeah, there it is. He knew he still had it. Years worth of unused lyrics right here in his hands, the co-writer riding out his afterglow peacefully in the next room. Derek gets up and heads back to him without a second thought.

He pauses in the doorway and takes him in. His hipbones jut out just above the loose waistband of Derek’s sweatpants, his neck and chest are still flushed and bare, his hair is a wreck. Stiles doesn’t look up, he just smiles behind his book. Derek picks up his legs so he can sit with them in his lap. Stiles reaches out to brush his fingers over a bright new bruise blooming on his collarbone from where Stiles had bit him. Derek drops the notebook into his lap.

“What’s…” he starts, but his voice tapers off when he looks at it. He recognizes the wrinkled leather cover and the yellowed pages and the bits of paper sticking out at every angle. “Oh my god,” Stiles says, setting his book aside to get his hands on it.

He pulls his legs away from Derek so he can stand and pace and carefully inspect each page. He looks truly _reunited_ with it, he stares at with shining eyes. Derek looks down at his hands, feeling like he’s intruding. His head is spinning with the memory of checking his mail and opening the envelope as he held his breath. It had hurt like a bullet wound. That’s when he knew they were done and that Stiles wasn’t going to fight for him. He’s staring at his hands but he can see Stiles’ pacing feet at the top of his field of vision. They stop in front of him.

“You kept it,” Stiles says, sounding overwhelmed.

“Yeah,” Derek says, feeling overwhelmed too.

“I love you,” Stiles breathes in a wavering voice. The sentence slams against Derek’s chest and makes him ache. They’d been able to say so many things to each other, but not that. Not yet. Just in case, just a precaution. Every syllable feels heavy and important and true. Stiles drops to his knees in front of him and looks up into his face. “I really do, so much. Derek, say something.” 

He leans forward and hugs Stiles. “You have no idea how much it hurt to get that in the mail,” Derek says, voice thick with dormant hurt. Stiles wriggles out of his grasp and crawls into his lap. He cradles Derek’s face in his hands and kisses his forehead. His weight fills Derek with a sense of security and Derek wraps his arms around him and leans back into the couch.

“Then tell me,” Stiles says and Derek knows, he totally knows the second the words cross his lips, that this is going to be the start of a long and very important conversation. He wants to tell him everything. He wants to know everything. He wants to make the last two years make sense and he wants to set them aside for good and he wants to continue moving forward.

“I love you,” Derek whispers and he feels like it should hurt, but it doesn’t. 

**

December 23rd.  
Chicago, IL.

Stiles is pretty sure he’ll be walking away from this having failed. And with a bloody nose, probably. Isaac is definitely going to punch him on sight. 

But this was it, this was necessary, this was the grand gesture. Stiles still carries this guilt like a knot in his chest and perhaps this will un-tie it a little. 

Stiles had tried to get Scott to come along, but he’d sighed and his voice carried nothing but regret when he told him he couldn’t. And that was probably the first time Stiles truly realized that he wasn’t the only one carrying around this regret. 

He shoves his hands further into the pockets of his puffy coat and the snow crunches under his feet as he walks and he’s pretty sure his eyes are freezing over. He wishes someone was here with him. He wishes Derek hadn’t had family stuff. Lydia had just laughed, said that she’d see them on Christmas Eve and hung up. And he could definitely hold that against her, but he won’t. 

He had forgotten about listening to Erica’s friend like he’d promised. Too much had been going on. She asked him about it a few days ago and Stiles dug through his email to find the Soundcloud links she’d sent. The songs had been incredible. Technically perfect, interesting, well-written and expertly performed. Somehow familiar. The only identifier on the page had been the username: IdiotLullabies. The closer Stiles listened to the lyrics, the more fascinated he was and the clearer it became who this was, which friend of Erica’s this might be. 

So here he is, finally standing outside of Isaac’s house, a house he’d only seen a few times. His own regret sinks deeper. God, he’d been a shitty friend.

The door pulls open and there’s Isaac… looking the same. Tall, thin, curly haired, blue eyes, nothing different. His face shows nothing but confusion.

“Uh, hey…”

“Have any Christmas plans?” Stiles asks, trying to keep himself composed.

“Excuse me?”

Isaac had spent every Christmas with them, either in Beacon Hills or on the road, since they met him. Thanksgiving too. 

“I have a flight back to California in two hours and there’s a ticket for you if you want.” Stiles shrugs. 

“You came all the way to Chicago to invite me to Christmas?” Isaac asks, skepticism written on his face.

“Yes.” No. Not just that. “No. I mean…”

Isaac raises an eyebrow.

“Can I come inside at least, it’s freezing. I need to talk to you.”

Isaac sighs and lets him in reluctantly.

They stand uncomfortably in the living room and stare at each other. “So?” Isaac asks. “What’d you want?”

“I’m sorry.”

Isaac’s shoulders relax and he rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, really, I have no hard feelings—“

“I heard your stuff and I think it’s really really good and you should come back to Beacon Hills with me so you can meet the people at our new label I set up a meeting for you for the day after Christmas if you want—“ Stiles blurts in one big breath, saying it while he still has a shred of bravery.

“Excuse me?” Isaac says, voice higher.

“We left the label, got signed by a new one that’s just starting out and they need more artists and Erica sent me your Soundcloud and you are…Kira is kinda old school, thought I should come talk to you in person first… you are so talented… and I don’t want you spending Christmas alone.” All true.

“You don’t want me spending Christmas alone so you’re going to offer me a record deal?” he asks with his crooked smile.

Stiles grins. “Something like that.”

Because maybe it does boil down to that. Maybe it is that simple. Isaac is a part of the family. He is important. He deserves this chance. And he definitely deserves some of Talia Hale’s famous Christmas fudge, regardless of what happens with Vulpine Lupine.

“Okay,” Isaac says in a soft, painfully open voice. He locks eyes with Stiles and smiles, drops his gaze and scratches the back of his neck. “I uh… thank you.”

Stiles can feel the adrenaline and bravery draining out of him so before it’s gone… “We’ve missed you. I’ve missed you.”

“But I’m no Derek—“

“So what?” Stiles says, unwavering. Isaac looks back at him. Stiles’ bravery is gone. “You should pack.” 

Isaac hesitates, hands floating uselessly at his side. “I uh… missed you too.” 

Stiles clenches his teeth to keep his grin at bay and nods. Isaac dips his head and turns toward his bedroom.

**

February.  
Beacon Hills, CA

Lydia stands on the porch with her hands on her hips and a curious look on her face. “What am I looking at here, exactly?”

Derek looks over at her and sees Stiles approaching the door beyond her. “Flowers?” 

Stiles snorts and ducks around her to get to the porch swing. 

“I know they’re flowers, but what are you doing…?”

“Planting them?”

She raises her eyebrows and looks to Stiles as if searching for confirmation that it’s weird. But Stiles is too busy looking at Derek with glowing affection. 

“What?” Derek asks him while smoothing soil over the roots of the cluster of bloomed white petunias with his hands.

“Nothing,” Stiles says softly. Derek shoots a smile at him and gets one back.

“So, is this a thing?” Lydia asks. “Flower boxes? Is this some sort of thing that was whispered under the sheets in Berlin or something? Did you guys cry and clutch at each other and promise to plant flowers in each other’s honor?”

“No,” Derek huffs.

“Because I hate to break it to you, but those are annuals and that’s not a symbol of longevity.”

“Who knows where we’re going to be in a year,” Stiles argues. Derek looks up at him and his heart rate spikes. “We might be touring Asia or Australia or South America or living in a mansion in Malibu or a flat in London. A lot can happen in a year.” And his heart rate settles. 

She smiles and turns to tuck her chin against her shoulder to hide it. After awhile of silent observation, she heads back inside. Derek finishes transplanting the rest of the petunias into the box and waters them with the hose set to a fine mist while Stiles keeps looking at him. Derek sends a blast of gentle mist his way just to hear him laugh. 

“This is the least rock and roll thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Scott announces from the doorway. 

“We’ll make it up to you in the studio,” Stiles promises, tearing his eyes off of Derek finally. Scott bounces on his heels and starts singing a guitar line they’d figured out the night before.

Stiles stands and joins in, air guitaring for good measure.

Lydia appears behind Scott and starts slapping a rhythm out on his shoulders. “C’mon, wash up so we can go. Don’t want to be late on the first day of recording,” she commands Derek without missing a beat. 

Derek’s body hums with excitement and nerves as he washes his hands in the kitchen. He can hear his band singing on the front porch. Scott’s cereal bowl is in the sink and Lydia’s lipstick stained coffee mug sits on the counter and there are signs of Stiles all over the kitchen – a sticky note about being out to lunch with his dad stuck to the bread box, the now viral picture of them kissing pinned to the fridge… 

“Babe, c’mooon,” Stiles calls from the front door. 

Derek dries his hands and shakes his head. “Don’t call me babe,” he yells back and walks toward the sound of their voices.

**

_Epilogue._

July.  
Beacon Hills, CA.

“Good evening, Beacon Hills!” Stiles says into the mic, his heart pounding with excitement. He’d been jittery all day but now he feels pretty invincible. “I hope you guys had a good time with Royales and Isaac. Aren’t they amazing?” He waits for the fevered cheering to settle down, beaming out at the audience. “I know they’re not from here, but the band and I would like to thank you for making them feel as if they were. You do us proud, Beacon Hills.”

Stiles looks over at Scott and then over at Derek. Lydia rattles her sticks against the rim of her snare to let them know she’s with them too. “It’s been awhile since we’ve done a one-off show, hasn’t it?” Stiles asks his band.

“Years,” Scott agrees.

“We’ve never had opening acts for one-offs,” Derek points out slyly. The pitch of the audience’s yelling ratchets up a couple notches like they know there’s something to be excited about.

“Would you say this is a special occasion then, Lydia?” Stiles asks, swinging around to look up at her.

She leans to the side and “hmmm”s into the mic, tapping her chin. “I guess it’s pretty special. It’s not every day we announce a new album to a sold out hometown crowd.”

The explosion of cheering shocks a laugh out of all of them. 

“Just an album? Don’t we have a tour coming up too?” Stiles asks coyly, playing the opening line of the opening song on the album on his guitar. 

“I think so,” Derek answers, casually plucking the bass line.

Jackson’s muttering in their ears about the wireless system taking years off his life and they can hear Danny laughing in the background. Boyd, Greenberg, Isaac, Erica and the twins are standing in the wings, watching with unabashedly eager smiles. 

“Huh. Well, anyway, do you guys want to hear the album?”

“I think they do,” Scott says, starting to play his own part. Lydia waits a few beats before she starts drumming. 

“Welcome to Annuals, everyone. We hope you like it.”

Later, when the interviews start rolling in and they get closer and closer to the actual release date, they’re going to have to explain themselves just like they always had. Tempest had been called what it was because getting signed and recording and everything had been like a perfect storm. And Gladiator had been Gladiator because they’d had to fight to keep going. The last one had been called Fingerprints because no matter how hard they tried, there was still some sort of trace evidence of their past lingering with them. 

And now Annuals. 

Because Lydia was half right and half wrong when she said that annuals weren’t a symbol of longevity. They bloom one season and never come back, but all you have to do is plant something new the following year. They require effort and care. They provide a constant opportunity for something new. 

And so does this band. 

Stiles is shining with sweat by the time they get to the end of the album. There’s nothing like playing these new songs – the ones he and Derek had written curled up together in the back lounge years ago that Stiles had thought were gone forever, the one that Stiles had peeled off his thigh in Paris with Scott waking up slowly next to him, the one Lydia had written on the back of a receipt after a shitty date with some male model in New York. There was absolutely nothing better than this. 

Stiles downs a bottle of water and tosses it out into the crowd, paces the stage a little, takes deep and centering breaths. Derek holds his hand out toward him because he knows. Stiles goes to him and takes it, the first time he’s touched him on stage tonight (they don’t want to make the kissing thing a habit, they really don’t). 

Scott and Lydia talk to the audience while Derek smiles at Stiles like he’s the only person in the whole arena. Stiles squeezes his hand and kisses him on the cheek before heading back to his mic.

“This last song is something Derek and I wrote together before he left.” 

They know the story now, at least most of it, thanks to the mountains upon mountains of interviews from the first month post-coming out. They know how long he and Derek had been in love, they know why Derek left, they know that Stiles was devastated, they know that there had been a song involved and judging by the reaction, they know this is it.

He catches a glimpse of Allison just beyond the footlights, wearing her Moms for Scott shirt and grinning in a way that means she’s probably crying too. Stiles winks at her and she blows him a kiss. He makes eye contact with Scott and looks back to check on Lydia. Stiles looks over at Derek and Derek’s looking back. When he turns back to his mic and the writhing audience, this wall of upturned faces, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. He’s been waiting for this moment for years. 

“This is Fair/Unfair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking Up is a Paramore song. (Which is literally the perfect song to end this with.)
> 
> And here we are! It’s been just over a year since I started this and I had no idea what this thing would end up being and I definitely didn’t anticipate the outpouring of support and love that you guys have shown it/me. I’m genuinely flabbergasted and overwhelmed and so grateful. Thank you for reading and rec’ing and commenting and joining me over on tumblr and everything. Uhh this whole thing has meant a lot to me, idk, maybe I’ll gather my thoughts and post a more thorough show of gratitude over on tumblr. <3
> 
> Also, this universe is really impossible for me to give up on. So expect a prequel and more B-Sides. If there's anything you want to see more of, pop on over to tumblr and let me know. I'll either B-Side it or give you some thorough headcanons. >:3 
> 
> Come say heyooo on [Tumblr](http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/)/[Twitter](https://twitter.com/BHCyclones). Let me love on you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Play Crack The Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982069) by [itsdeianeira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsdeianeira/pseuds/itsdeianeira)
  * [Play Crack the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6085164) by [Abooksmoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abooksmoke/pseuds/Abooksmoke)




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